


Si'l Suffisait D'aimer

by LadyConstellation



Series: AU Yeah August 2020 [21]
Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: 19th Century, A+ Parenting Right There Folks, AU Yeah AUgust (Miraculous Ladybug), Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir Needs a Hug, Also Yes We Celine Dioned the Heck Out of That Title, Alternate Universe - The Night Circus Fusion, And Decides that Entering his Son into a Potentially Life-Ending Game Is a Good Coping Mechanism, Angst and Feels, Angst and Romance, Bad Parent Gabriel Agreste, Blame Google Translate, Circus, Competition, F/M, Feels, Gabriel Agreste is abusive, I Angsted My Way Into This Mess I'll Angst My Way Out, I Swear the Fic Isn't as Much of a Mess as the Tags, Illusions, In Which Gabriel Loses His Wife, Looooooong One-Shot, Magic, Magic-Users, Minor Character Death, Oh Also Like One Lukanette Scene But They're Not Really A Couple Or Anything, Rivalry, Sad, Slow Burn, Some Mentions of Blood/Violence, There's Some French but I Can't Speak French, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, When My Brain Functions is Purely Up to God, Why Did I Write This?, Will This Be Done Sometime Next Year????, heck if I know, not too graphic though, this was not supposed to be this long
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:22:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 69,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28480842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyConstellation/pseuds/LadyConstellation
Summary: August Twenty-First Prompt: Circus"I have spent a great deal of time in this circus, surrounded by the love letters you've written into these tents. It has reminded me of something I have not felt in years. You two have created such beauty with each other in your lives.""Why are you telling me this? You know what I have to do,""You know him so well, he is nearly a second part to you, and you to him. This is why you must know he will never let you do this– I have spoken to Adrien many times, and while he is a reasonable man in many ways, he is relentless in his love for you.""Don't you think I know that?" Marinette cries, her voice breaking.
Relationships: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir & Tikki, Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug, Luka Couffaine & Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug, Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug & Tikki, Plagg/Tikki (Miraculous Ladybug) (Mentioned)
Series: AU Yeah August 2020 [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1862911
Comments: 14
Kudos: 31





	Si'l Suffisait D'aimer

_The circus arrives without warning._

_There are no announcements preceding it; no advertisements or notices in downtown stores nor exclamations on billboards, no mentions in the newspapers- local or broadly known. It is merely there, when yesterday it was not._

_The tents that seem to reach the top of the Parisian skyline are in black and white; not a spot of color to be seen. Not in the surrounding trees or grounds which have been treated or powdered in one circus trick or another. It is simply black and white stripes along the night sky dotted with stars; countless tents of varying shapes and sizes, each housing a different miraculous act._

_Whispers race through Paris that the circus is back, but it is not open. Not yet, at least._

_By the time dusk is beginning to set, it seems the entire city has heard the news and that the majority of them have lined up outside the wrought iron gates surrounding the monochromatic circus._

_Children tug excitedly on the sleeves of their parents while the parents themselves complain under their breaths of the length of the line to get in._

_The people who have lived long enough to have been the last time the circus was in town share their excitement over the acts they’ve longed to see again, while the ones who have never experienced it before shift from foot to foot, debating giving up the wait and spending their night somewhere warmer._

_As if the circus can sense their patrons’ anticipation– or in some cases, impatience– the lights begin to flicker on, seemingly adding extra stars to the night sky._

_White sparks and smoke fly as lights pop and flicker, putting even Paris and its name of the City of Lights to shame._

_Many patrons have their eyes glued on the sign, stretched atop the gates, hidden in the curls of iron when not lit up. At first, the lights seem to turn on in random patterns, until letters begin to form from the firefly lights. First, a ‘C’ is distinguishable, followed by several other letters, a ‘q’, strangely enough, and several ‘e’s._

_When the bulbs are finally all lit up, when the smoke and sparks dissipate, murmurs spread through the crowd again._

_“Le Cirque du Miraculeux,” one patron whispers with the same tone of familiarity that one might use when talking to an old friend._

_Children tug on their parents' sleeves, unable to make out the words due to the scrawling, cursive script. “The Circus of the Miraculous,” comes the reply, and the children smile delightedly._

_The iron gates shudder and swing open of their own volitions, some patrons stepping back to make room for its wide reach. The patrons are invited in, the smell of caramel wafting through the air._

_The circus opens at nightfall, and that is where the story begins._

* * *

It is a bleak day, the day of Emilie Agreste’s funeral. Not due to the weather, for the sun is shining as brightly as any other day in a cloudless sky– however, it still manages to chill Adrien Agreste to his bones on this winter day, his father’s hand clutching his tightly as they watch the polished wooden casket be lowered into the ground. 

Gabriel Agreste stands watching motionlessly, not a single tear glistening in his stony-grey eyes while his son glances up at him, a worried and questioning expression on his face. 

The man can hardly stand to look at the boy anymore; Adrien’s golden hair and emerald eyes a living reminder of the woman he failed to save. A ghost of his wife, a shell of her. Gabriel looks ahead, refusing to acknowledge the boy tugging on his hand. 

The crowd begins to disperse until it is just Gabriel and Adrien standing in front of a newly planted headstone, red roses scattered across the plot of land. 

Adrien continues to tug on his father’s hand while the man stands still for hours until the sun begins to set and stars begin to dot the sky. Without warning or a single word spoken to his scared child, Gabriel begins to head home, pulling Adrien along with him, whose short legs struggle to keep up with his father’s brisk pace. 

Looking back at the graveyard one last time before walking away entirely, Gabriel hastens his pace, determined to never go back there again. 

When they arrive back home, Gabriel nearly collapses into a dining room chair, an entire decanter of whiskey hanging loosely from his hand. His flinty eyes focusing on a portrait of his wife, he ignores the calls of his son from across the table. 

“Papa?” 

Gabriel stares straight ahead, taking another sip from the decanter. 

Adrien moves closer to him with worried green eyes, his hand reaching out as if to grasp Gabriel’s own, although he pulls away at the last moment. “Papa?” 

The man just shakes his head slightly, pale blond hair flicking into his eyes. 

Just the young boy he is– five years old, though six in just a few months– Adrien’s anger begins to grow, tension growing and nearly choking out the air in the room. “Papa!” Bright green eyes narrow in frustration, and the decanter shatters in Gabriel’s hand, glass flying through the air before falling to the floor, covering the marble like a dangerous rug. Whiskey begins to seep into Gabriel’s clothes, small droplets of liquid pooling on the table. 

Gabriel’s eyes fly open, no longer sluggishly squinted as he spreads his hands along with the polished dark wood table and the spilled whiskey begins trailing back from the floor and table. The cracked and broken pieces of the decanter stand and rearrange themselves to surround the liquid once more until the complete glass stands tall again with no sign of it ever having been shattered. He tilts his head at the young boy whose eyes are open wide in shock, his mouth agape. 

“Well,” Gabriel says coolly as he tilts his head, “You might be interesting,” 

Adrien does not reply, instead pushing his chair back, rushing up the stairs, and locking the door to his room. He does not come out for forty-eight hours. 

Several months later, once Gabriel has decided that Adrien is ready, he begins to write a letter, scarlet ink dripping onto the table like spots of blood. He sends it to a man across the sea, one who has no name. It arrives at its destination regardless.

* * *

Tonight is the final performance of a limited arrangement. The man billed as Papillon has not graced a single stage in Paris, France for a very long time– nearly two decades– and he is staying for a single week, one performance at night and no matinées. 

The tickets, although priced extravagantly, sold out within two days and the theatre is completely full, not a single seat left empty. Women and men alike fan themselves with programs and delicately folded fans to ward off the heavy heat and thick air that always arrives in crowded areas such as this, despite the autumnal chill outside. 

At one point during the performance, each one of those fans suddenly turns into a dove, fluttering and spinning loops as flocks of them circle around the theatre to great amounts of applause. Eventually, each bird returns to their owners’ laps, and the applause only grows; although some people whose fans have just been returned are much too stunned to clap. They pick up the fans in wonder, turning over silk and feather; too stunned to note the permeating heat anymore. 

The man in the grey suit sitting in the stage-right box does not clap for this performance trick, nor any of the other acts performed throughout the show. He sits quietly, watching the man on the stage steadily with a judging, evaluating gaze; his attention not once diverted by any flying birds nor aerial tricks throughout the evening. Not once does he lift a silk-gloved hand to clap, never even lifts an eyebrow at tricks that have other guests gasping or shrieking. 

Once the performance has ended after an hour and a half, the man in the grey suit easily slips between the crowd of patrons in the theatre lobby, many of whom are standing and gossiping about how the man had pulled off a variety of tricks. He slides through a velvet curtain that leads to the backstage dressing room without drawing any attention. Stagehands, attendants, and the like never so much as glance at him. 

He knocks clearly on the door with the silver-cap of his cane, which is intricately carved in the shape of a turtle. 

The door swings open of its own accord, a cluttered dressing room lying beyond with full-length mirrors strewn about, each one reflecting a different view of Papillon. 

His tailcoat has been tossed haphazardly over one of the many velvet chairs in the room, his waistcoat hanging unbuttoned over a messily rumpled lilac dress-shirt with torn lace sleeves. The silver-silk top hat that had been featured so prominently in his performance sits on a coat-hanger nearby. 

The man had appeared nearly decades younger on stage, his true age and wrinkles buried under glaring stage lights and coats upon coats of makeup. His top hat covered silver strands of hair now glinting in the light of lamps and bulbs that line the mirror he currently sits in front of. However, there is something so youthful about his grin when he sees the man enter the room that he looks almost just as he had on the stage. 

He raises an eyebrow, “You hated it, didn't you?” he says without turning away from the mirror, addressing only the man’s ghostly grey reflection. He wipes away a thick layer of foundation from his face with a handkerchief that had perhaps once been white, but instead now looks grey and tan, stained from years and years of makeup removal. 

“It is a pleasure seeing you again, too, Gabriel,” the man in the grey suit says, the door closing behind him without even the slightest noise. 

“You don’t have to pretend,” Gabriel Agreste laughs, shaking the dilapidated handkerchief at the other man, “I could practically see you cringing at some points.” 

He turns around in his chair, his arms flung around the back of it before extending a hand towards him, though the man in the grey suit does not accept it. Seemingly undisturbed by this rejection, Gabriel shrugs it off, waving a hand in the direction of the opposite wall in a clear, sharp gesture. One of the many velvet chairs in the room flys forward from a corner packed with trunks and clothes, a cage of butterflies precariously balanced atop a stack of books. 

“Do sit, please,” Gabriel says, turning himself to fully face the man, “Although it’s not as comfortable as the one you sat in upstairs, I’m afraid,” 

“I cannot say I approve of your exhibitions,” the man in the grey suit says, taking off his silk gloves and dusting the chair with them before sitting down. “Passing off all your illusions as mere manipulations and tricks. Charging admission for it, no less,” 

Gabriel raises an eyebrow again, “As opposed to writing everything down in books and doing nothing with it?” He tosses the handkerchief into a pile of tins and canisters of grease-paints and makeup. “Not a single person in that audience up there believes what I do is real. That’s the magic and the beauty of it. Have you seen the contraptions some of those _magicians_ use to accomplish even the most mundane of tricks? They are a bunch of fish covered in feathers trying to convince the audience that they can fly; I am simply a bird in their midst. The audience cannot even tell the difference between the two of us, other than the fact that I am simply better at it.” 

“That does not make it any less trivial,” 

“These people line up to be mystified,” Gabriel says simply, “I can merely do it better than most. It seems a waste to let the opportunity pass by. Pays better than one might expect– if you can draw in a decent audience, that is. Would you care for a drink? I know I’ve got some whiskey and wine, but I can’t seem to find the glasses anymore,” He begins to shuffle around excerpts of newspapers, knocking over stray empty birdcages. 

The man in the grey suit wrinkles his nose in disgust, “No thank you,” he shifts in his chair, grasping his cane tighter in his hands. “I found your performance curious, even for you. You were lacking in precision, yet the audience did not seem to care,” 

Gabriel snorts, “Well yes, I can’t be too good if I want them to believe I’m truly faking all of this. All they seem to know is that I’m the best they’ve ever seen. Nevertheless, I thank you for coming and suffering through the show. I’d become worried that you wouldn’t arrive– that seat has been reserved for you the entire week, you know.”

“I do not make it a habit to decline invitations,” the man in the grey suit inclines his head, “Your letter said you had a proposition for me?” 

Gabriel laughs delightedly, “Yes, I do!” He claps his hands together sharply. “I was hoping you might be up for another game. It’s been far too long since we’ve played. Though before you agree, you simply must meet my new project,” 

“I was under the impression that you had decided to stop teaching,” 

“Well, I had, but this was such a unique opportunity that I simply could not resist,” Gabriel rises from his chair, walking over to a door mostly obstructed by a slightly askew mirror, “Adrien, do come out,” he calls into the room before returning to the velvet-covered chair. 

Just a moment later, a neatly dressed young boy appears in the doorway, his appearance nearly too well put-together for the chaos and eccentricity of the room. His hair is carefully combed back away from his face, all crisp and clean-cut lines on his black pants and jacket, his white dress shirt underneath not even the slightest bit rumpled. He seems happy that his father has called him in, although hesitates when he sees the other man in the room. 

“It’s alright, Adrien. Come in, come along,” Gabriel says, waving his hand and beckoning Adrien over to his side. “This is an… associate of mine. There’s no need to be so shy,” 

The young boy takes just a few more steps forward before bowing his head, staring intently at the floorboards as if afraid to meet anyone’s eyes. 

“This is my son, Adrien,” Gabriel says to the man in the grey suit, placing one hand firmly on the boy’s head. “Adrien, this is Winslow,” 

“Pleased to meet you,” Adrien says, his eyes still glued to the floor. His voice is barely more than a whisper, low-pitched for a boy as young as him. 

Gabriel tucks his fingers under Adrien’s chin to pry it up as the man in the grey suit politely nods. 

“Now, Adrien, I would like you to show this man what we’ve been practicing,” Gabriel says coldly, pulling out a silver pocket-watch on a long, tangled chain from his ivory waistcoat and placing it on the table. “Go on, show him what you can do,” 

The young boy’s eyes widen as he takes a step back from his father and the table, nearly running into the wall behind him. 

“But Father, you said I wasn’t to do that around anyone,” he says, tugging nervously on his shirt-sleeve, “You made me promise.” 

“This man is not just anyone,” Gabriel says with a snort, placing a hand on Adrien’s back to push him forward again. 

Adrien shakes his head, “You said no exceptions; not for anyone,” 

His father’s smile fades as he takes Adrien by the shoulders, looking him sternly in the eye with steely determination. 

“Now, Adrien, this is a very special case.” he says, “Do as I say and show this man what you can do, like you do in your lessons,” He pushes him back towards the table with the watch, and Adrien stumbles before righting himself and standing up straight, his hands clasped behind his back.

Attention clearly focused on the watch, Adrien narrows his eyes at it, and after a moment, the watch begins to rotate slowly, spinning around in circles on the table, silver chain trailing after it. After a few rotations, the watch begins to float off the table, hovering just a few inches over the table as if it was suspended in water. 

While the watch continues to hover, not once wavering or shaking, Gabriel looks to the man in the grey suit for some sort of reaction, although his face is blank. 

“Impressive, I suppose,” the man says, “But quite basic,” 

Adrien’s brow furrows, green eyes growing cold and angry as the watch shatters, gears and metal pieces spilling through the air, although not a single one touches the ground, each one still hovering a few inches above the table. 

“Adrien” his father admonishes. 

His cheeks flush at the sharpness of the reprimanding and mumbles a quick apology. The gears begin to slowly float back into the watch, settling into place until the watch is complete again, steadily ticking forward as if nothing had ever happened. 

“Now that,” the man in the grey suit says calmly, “is more impressive.” He tilts his head at Adrien before adding, “But he has a temper,”

“He is still young,” Gabriel says nonchalantly, placing his hand atop Adrien’s head, ignoring the young boy’s small flinch, “And this is with less than a year of training; by the time he’s fully grown, his skill will be incomparable,” 

The man in the grey suit shakes his head, “I could take any child off the street and teach them this much. ‘Incomparable’ is a matter of your personal opinion, and can easily be disproved,” 

“Aha!” Gabriel exclaims, “Then you are willing to play,” 

There is a brief moment of hesitation before the man in the grey suit nods, “Something a bit more complex than last time, and yes, I might be interested. Possibly.” 

“Of course it will be more complex!” Gabriel exclaims, “I have natural talent playing here. I’m not wagering that for any simple game.” 

“Natural talent is a questionable phenomenon. An inclination, perhaps. But having an innate ability is extremely rare,”

Gabriel snorts, “He’s my own child, it is obvious he has an innate ability,” 

“But you admit he’s had lessons,” the man in the grey suit points out, “How could you be so certain that everything he can do hasn’t simply been forced?” 

The magician narrows his eyes at the man in the grey suit, “Adrien, when did you begin your lessons?” he asks without so much as glancing at his son. 

“March,” he answers. 

“And what year?” Gabriel prompts. 

Adrien wrinkles his nose as if this question is a particularly stupid one, “This year,” 

“Eight months of lessons,” Gabriel clarifies, “At barely six years of age. And if I recall correctly, you often start your students even younger than that. Adrien is clearly more advanced than he would be if he did not have any natural ability. He could levitate that watch on his first try.” 

The man in the grey suit turns his attention to Adrien, crouching to reach his eye-level. 

“You broke that watch on accident, did you not?” he asks, tilting his head toward the watch now resting on the table. 

Adrien frowns at the watch and nods sheepishly. 

“He does have remarkable control for someone so young,” he rises, saying to Gabriel, “But one’s temper is always an unfortunate variable. It leads to unpredictable behavior; which he’s already demonstrating.” 

Gabriel shrugs, “He’ll either grow out of it or learn to control it. After a few years of lessons, it’ll be a minor issue.” 

The man in the grey suit narrows his eyes at Adrien but speaks directly to Gabriel. To Adrien’s ears, the words can no longer be made out and sound muffled, as though he is trying to make out a conversation a great distance away while underwater. He frowns as his father’s replies take on the same garbled quality. 

“You would truly wager your own child, Gabriel?” 

“He won’t lose,” Gabriel says confidently, “I suggest you find a student that you can bear parting with if you do not already have one to spare.” 

“And I assume his mother does not have any opinion on the matter?” 

Gabriel’s steely-grey eyes narrow before he simply says, “She is dead.” 

The man in the grey suit considers this for a moment, tilting his head at Adrien once more before he speaks again, although Adrien still cannot comprehend the words. 

“I understand your confidence in his ability,” he says carefully, “but I urge you to consider at least the possibility that he could be lost; should the competition not play out in his favor. After all, I will find a player I believe can truly challenge him. Otherwise, there would be no reason for me to agree to the game. There is no way for you to guarantee his victory.” 

“This is a risk I am willing to take,” Gabriel says carelessly, without so much as a glance at his son, “If you would like to make it official now, go right ahead.” 

The man in the grey suit looks back at Adrien yet again, and when he speaks, the boy is able to understand the words again. 

“Very well,” he says with a clear nod. 

“He made me not hear right,” Adrien whispers to his father, tugging on Gabriel’s waistcoat. 

“I know, son, and it wasn’t very polite,” Gabriel says as he guides his son closer to a chair, where the man scrutinizes him with dark brown eyes. 

“Have you always been able to do such things?” he asks the young boy, glancing back at the watch again. 

Adrien nods hesitantly. 

“Momma… my momma told me I shouldn’t let anybody know,” he said very quietly, looking down at his hands. 

The man in the grey suit leans forward and whispers something into the young child’s ear, something too low for his father to overhear, and it makes Adrien’s face brighten in a smile. 

“Hold out your left hand,” he instructs, crouching down to be eye-level with the boy sitting in the chair. Adrien immediately held out his hand, palm up, a curious expression on his face. Unlike what the boy expected, the man in the grey suit does not place anything in his hand, instead, he flips it over and removes a silver ring from his own pinkie finger. He slides it onto the young boy’s ring finger, although it is too loose for his slim, piano-player fingers. 

He is just opening his mouth to state that the ring, while very lovely– engraved with different Chinese characters and animals– did not seem to fit him, when he realizes that it is shrinking to fit his finger. 

His momentary happiness at the adjustment is quickly lost as pain starts to set in, the ring continuing to constrict his finger, and the metal beginning to burn and smoke. He attempts to pull his hand away, but the man in the grey suit keeps his hand around his wrist. 

The ring begins to thin and fade, seemingly melting into his skin, leaving only a bright red burn mark around Adrien’s finger. 

The man in the grey suit releases the boy’s wrist, and Adrien quickly gets up from the chair and steps back, retreating into a shadowy corner and staring, mystified, at his hand. 

“Well done, Adrien,” his father says calmly. 

“I’m sure you know, I will need some time to acquire a player of my own.” the man in the grey suit says, inclining his head. 

“Of course,” Gabriel replies, “Take all the time you need.” He pulls a golden band from his right hand and places it on the table. “For when you find yours,” 

He raises an eyebrow, “You prefer not to do the honors yourself?” 

“I trust you,” 

The man in the grey suit nods and pulls out a pristine handkerchief from his coat, picking up the ring, careful not to touch it, and places it in his pocket. 

“I hope you’re not doing this because my player won the last challenge, Gabriel,” 

“Of course not,” Gabriel says, “I’m doing this because I have a player who can beat anyone you put forth, and because the times have changed enough to make it interesting again. Besides, I believe the overall record leans in my favor.” 

The man in the grey suit does not bother to argue this point, he merely watches Adrien with the same mildly interested gaze. The boy attempts to step out of his line of sight, but the room is much too small. 

“And I suppose you already have a venue in mind?” 

“Not exactly,” Gabriel admits, “I thought it might be a bit more fun to leave a small element of surprise as far as the venue is concerned. I know a theatre producer here in Paris who should be more than willing to stage our little game. I will simply drop a few hints when the time comes, and I’m sure she’ll come up with something more than appropriate. Much better to have it on neutral ground, though I thought you might appreciate starting things on your side of the pond,” 

“And this woman's name?” 

“Bourgeois. Chloé Bourgeois. They say she’s the illegitimate daughter of some royal or another; her mother some ex-prima ballerina. I have her card somewhere in this mess. You’ll like her, I’m sure. Quite a forward-thinking young lady. Wealthy. Eccentric. A bit obsessive over her projects, nearly always unpredictable, but I suppose that’s part of having her sort of temperament.” The pile of paper on Gabriel’s desk begins to shift on its own, sorting through the different documents until a singular business card remains and flies into Gabriel’s outstretched palm. He quickly passes it off to the man in the grey suit. “She throws wonderful parties.” 

The man in the grey suit puts it in his pocket without a single glance. 

“I’ve never heard of her before. And am not fond of public settings for our challenges, for that matter. However, I will take it under consideration,” 

“Oh, nonsense,” Gabriel laughs, “The public setting is half the fun. It brings along so many extra restrictions, so many more challenging perimeters to work around.” 

The man in the grey suit considers this for a moment before he nods. 

“And do we want a disclosure clause? It seems it would only be fair, considering my awareness of your player,” 

Gabriel waves his hand through the air, “Let’s have no clauses, other than our basic rules of interference.” he says, “I would like to push the boundaries with this one. No time limits; nothing of the sort. I’ll give your player the first move,” 

“Very well,” the man assents, “I shall be in contact once I have acquired a suitable player.” He turns to the young boy, still standing in the most shadowy part of the room, “It was a pleasure to meet you, Adrien,” 

He pulls on his gloves as Adrien gives another small bow, a wary look in bright green eyes. 

The man in the grey suit tips his hat to Papillon and slips out the door, then out the theatre, vanishing into the crowd like a shadow on the busy street.

In his disorderly dressing room, Gabriel Agreste laughs to himself while his son stands quietly in the corner, looking at the scar on his left ring finger. His pain had faded as quickly as the ring itself, but the red mark remains. 

Gabriel takes the silver pocket-watch from the table, comparing the time on the face to the clock on the wall. He winds the watch slowly, staring at the hands intently as they swirl around the face. 

“Adrien,” he says without taking his attention away from the watch, “why do we wind our watch?” 

“Because everything requires energy,” the young boy explains obediently, his eyes still focused on his hand, “We have to put energy into anything and everything we wish to change.” 

Gabriel nods, “Very good,” He shakes the watch gently before placing it back in his pocket. 

“Why did you call that man Winslow?” Adrien asks. 

“That seems a rather silly question,” 

“It’s not his name.” 

Gabriel slowly turns his head to look at his son, “And how would you know that?” 

Adrien stares back at his father, unsure of how to explain his certainty that the man he had met was not named Winslow. He plays over in his mind the man he had seen, the crisp grey suit, near-black eyes, trying to figure out why the name does not seem to fit him properly. 

“It’s not his real name…” Adrien says slowly. “Not the one he’s carried with him his whole life. It’s one he carries with him like– like a coat or a hat. He can take it off and put it on if he wants. Like Papillon is for you,” 

“You are more clever than I could have hoped,” Gabriel says, not bothering to confirm or deny the fact of his partner’s name. He takes the top-hat from where it rests on the coat hanger, placing it over Adrien’s head, obscuring his green eyes in swaths of silver silk. 

* * *

On one of the many busy streets of Paris, there is a grey building. There is nothing particularly special about this building; except perhaps what it might house inside, and it seems practically abandoned, despite the lights on. Every person walking along the street ignores it, moving from one store to another, the grey-stone orphanage nothing that would draw anyone’s attention. 

Yet the man in the grey suit has been standing outside this particular building for nearly ten minutes, his head tilted curiously. Some of the passersby examine him as though he is particularly odd, but most just part around him without a second glance. 

When the man finally walks inside, he looks out of place, despite the grey tones throughout the rooms. 

His suit too crisp, his eyes too bright, the silver of his cane too polished. 

The man in the grey suit gives his name to the headmistress, but she forgets it within seconds and is much too embarrassed to ask for it again. Later, when he signs the required paperwork, his signature is an indecipherable scrawl, and even if one could perhaps make it out after staring long enough, the form is lost within weeks. 

He presents odd and rather specific criteria to the headmistress as to what he is looking for. She is confused, but after a great deal of clarifications and questions, she brings out three children: two girls and a boy. The man in the grey suit asks to interview them privately, and although all three children shoot the headmistress a worried glance, she reluctantly agrees. 

The first girl is spoken to for only a few minutes before she is sent back out into the hallway, her nose wrinkled in confusion. When she passes by the other children, they both look to her for some indication of what to expect, but she just shakes her head. 

The boy is kept a few minutes longer before he, too, is dismissed staring back over his shoulder as if to keep an eye on the man. 

The other girl is then brought into the room to speak with the man in the grey suit. She is directed to sit in a chair in front of a desk, with the man standing nearby, staring pensively out a window. 

This girl does not fidget like the first girl did, nor does she immediately start talking as the boy had done. She sits quietly and patiently, her bluebell eyes taking in every corner of the room and the details of man, seemingly aware of everything while not quite staring. Her midnight black hair is poorly and unevenly cut, pulled into twin pigtails. Her clothes are ragged yet well-kept, although the pants are an inch or two too short, and everything is faded that one cannot quite tell what color it might have once been. 

“How long have you been here?” the man asks after examining the girl for a few moments. 

“Always,” the girl replies.

“And how old are you?” 

“I’ll be seven this September,” 

The man in the grey suit tilts his head, “You look younger than that,” 

“It’s not a lie,” 

“I did not mean to suggest that it was,” 

The man in the grey suit stares at the girl silently for some time. 

The girl stares back. 

“And you can read, I presume?”

The girl nods. 

“I like to read,” she says quietly, her voice smooth and mature, “There aren’t enough books here. I’ve read all of them already.” 

The man in the grey suit gives the girl what might have been a smile, “Very good,” 

Without warning, he tosses his cane at the girl. Without breaking eye contact, the girl catches it in one hand without flinching, her eyes narrowing at him. “It’s not very nice to throw things at people, you know,” 

The man’s lip quirks up at one side before taking the cane back from the girl, wiping off her finger-prints with a pristine handkerchief. 

“Very well, then,” the man in the grey suit says, “You will be coming to study with me. I assure you, I have many books I believe you’ll enjoy. I will make the necessary arrangements, and then we shall both be on our way.” 

The girl tilts her head at him, “Do I have a choice?” 

The man raises an eyebrow at her, “Do you wish to remain here?” 

Considering this for a moment, the girl shakes her head. 

“No,” 

“Very well,” 

“Don’t you want to know my name?” the girl asks, smoothing out her pants. 

The man in the grey suit shakes his head, “Names are not nearly as important as people like to think. A label designed to identify you either by this institution or your departed parents is neither of any interest nor value to me. If you find yourself in need of a name at any point, you may choose one for yourself. During your studies with me, it shall not be necessary.” 

The girl is sent back to her room to gather her things while the man in the grey suit signs papers and answers the headmistress’s questions with answers that she does not quite follow, although she does not protest the transaction. 

After a half hour– the time it takes for the girl to pack up her measly possessions– the man in the grey suit and the young girl leave the building. Neither one returns. 

* * *

Adrien grows up in a series of theatres. Most often in New York, although there are long stretches where he travels with his father to other cities. Boston. Chicago. San Francisco. It is rare, but from time to time, they will take their things across the sea for a week of performances in foreign countries. Often, they go to London, although there is an occasional trip to Milan, as well. They never visit Paris after the week when Adrien was six, but it is a memory branded in his mind. 

They never stay long enough for it to feel like home, and every trip eventually blends together in a haze of must and sawdust and velvet to the point that oftentimes, Adrien forgets which country or state he is in. Not that it matters, since he is never allowed to go outside without his father, and his father seldom goes outside. 

His father will take him everywhere he goes while he is still small, parading him around like a lap-dog dressed in expensive silk suits for his colleagues and acquaintances to fawn over when he visits a bar after a long stint of performances. 

When he decides that Adrien is too grown up to be adorable, anymore, he starts leaving him in dressing-rooms or whatever hotel they have booked that trip. 

He wonders, sometimes, if his father just might not return one night, but he always does. Stumbling in at unseemly hours, hat lopsided and gait uneven, he sometimes pats Adrien on the head while he pretends to be asleep, but more often stumbles right past him and collapses on the bed.

Their lessons have become less formal. While before, his father would sit him down and test at marked, though entirely irregular times, now he is tested constantly, though never in public. 

Even simple tasks such as tying his boots or doing up the buttons on his shirt, Adrien is forbidden to do by hand. Instead, he stares down in frustration at polished leather boots, watching as the laces messily twine together, more often than not getting tangled into knots. 

His father is not particularly forthcoming when answering questions. Adrien has only gathered that the man in the grey suit whom his father had called Winslow also has a student, and there will be some sort of game. 

“Like chess?” Adrien asks once.

“No,” his father shakes his head, “Not like chess,”

The girl grows up in a townhouse in Paris. She sees and talks to no one, not even when her meals are delivered to her room, appearing outside the door on covered trays and disappearing the same way. Once a month, a woman who does not speak is brought in to cut her hair. Once a year, the same woman comes in to measure her for new clothes. 

The girl spends most of her time reading. And writing, of course, as she has always been of the opinion that if you do one, you must do the other as well. She copies down excerpts of books, writes out words and symbols she is not sure she truly understands, though they become as familiar as the ink stains across her hands and underneath well-manicured fingernails. She forms them again and again in increasingly steady lines. She reads histories and mythologies and novels. She slowly learns other languages, although she is much better at reading and writing them than speaking. 

There are occasional excursions to museums and libraries at odd hours, when there are few, if any, visitors. The girl adores these trips, both for the contents of the trips themselves and the deviation from her daily routine. But the trips are rare, and she is not allowed to leave the house unescorted. 

The man in the grey suit visits her every day, most often with a new pile of books in his arms, spending exactly one hour lecturing the girl on things she is not sure she will ever understand. 

Only once does the girl inquire as to when she will be allowed to do the things that the man in the grey suit very rarely shows her during their lessons. 

“When you are ready,” is the only answer she receives. 

She is not deemed ready for some time.

The doves that appear onstage so frequently during Papillon’s performances are kept in elaborate swirls of silver cages, delivered to each new theatre with the rest of his luggage and supplies. 

The slamming of a door sends stacks of books and trunks tumbling in his dressing room, toppling the cage of doves over. 

The trunks right themselves instantly, though Gabriel picks up the cage to inspect it for damages nonetheless. 

While most of the doves are merely dazed from the fall, it is clear that one has a broken wing. Gabriel carefully removes the bird, the damaged silver bars repairing themselves as he sets the cage back down. 

Adrien looks at the bird worriedly, “Can you fix it?” 

His father looks at the injured dove, then back to Adrien, waiting for the boy to ask a different question. 

“… Can I fix it?” he asks instead. 

“Go ahead and try,” his father says, handing it to him. 

Adrien gently strokes the trembling dove, staring intently at the broken wing as he tries to imagine it setting back into its intended place. 

The bird makes a strangled, painful sound much different than it’s normal coo. 

“I can’t do it,” Adrien says with tears in his eyes, lifting the bird back up to his father. 

Gabriel takes the dove from Adrien’s trembling hands and swiftly twists its neck, ignoring his son's cry of protest. 

“Living things have different rules,” he says, not an ounce of emotion in his voice, “You should practice with something more basic, first.” He picks up the only doll he allows Adrien to bring with them on their travels and drops it on the floor, porcelain head splitting open. 

When Adrien returns to his father the next day, the carefully mended doll looking as though it had never been broken at all, he only receives a curt nod of approval before Gabriel goes back to his performance preparations. 

“You could have fixed the bird,” Adrien says, looking down at his shoes. 

“And then you wouldn’t have learned anything,” Gabriel counters, “You need to understand your limitations so that you may overcome them. That is the only way to win, and you do want to win, don’t you?” 

Adrien nods, although he is not quite sure what it is he wants to win. He looks down at the doll in his hands, the vacant smiling face painted on delicate china. 

He throws it under a chair while his father is not looking and does not take it with him when they depart the theatre two days later.

The man in the grey suit takes the girl for a week in London that is not precisely a holiday. The trip is completely unannounced, and the girl’s small suitcase is packed without her knowledge. 

The girl assumes that they are there for some manner of lesson, but no particular area of study is specified. After the first day, she begins to wonder if they are only there for the marvelous sight-seeing, spending hours staring down at the city from the London Eye, or staring out her hotel window at Big Ben in the distance. 

There are the usual off-hour trips to silent museums, where the girl tries and fails to walk as quietly as her mentor, wincing each time the sound of polished Mary-Jane’s clacking against the floor echo through near-empty hallways. Although she requests a sketchbook, her instructor insists that one is not necessary, and that it will be better to capture everything solely in her memory. 

One evening, the girl is sent to the theatre. 

She expects to find a play, or perhaps a ballet, but the performance is neither of the two and something the girl finds rather unusual. 

The man on stage, a slick-haired, bearded fellow whose white gloves move like birds against the pure black of his suit, performs simple tricks and sleight-of-hand misdirections. Birds disappear from cages with false bottoms, handkerchiefs disappear from pockets only to be concealed again in cuffs. 

The girl watches the man and his modest audience curiously. The spectators seem impressed by the deceptions, often applauding them politely. 

When she questions her instructor after the show, she is told that the matter will not be discussed until they return to Paris at the end of the week. 

The very next evening, the girl is brought to a larger theatre and is again left alone to watch the performance. The sheer size of the audience makes her nervous; she is not used to being around so many people. 

The man on the stage tonight appears older than the last magician she saw. He wears a nicer, better-fitted suit. His movements are more precise. Every exhibition is not only unusual but completely captivating for the audience. 

The applause that follows every act is more than polite. 

And this magician does not hide handkerchiefs in lace-trimmed cuffs. The birds which so often fly around the auditorium have no cages at all. These are feats that the girl has only seen before in her lessons. Manipulations and illusions she has been informed time and time again must remain secret.

The girl applauds with the rest of the auditorium when Papillon takes his final bow. 

As with the last performance, her instructor refuses to answer any questions until they return to Paris. 

Once back in the townhouse she has come to call home, she easily falls back into the routine that now seems as though it had never been disrupted. In the first lesson she receives, the man in the grey suit first asks her to identify the difference between the two performances. 

“The first man was using mechanical contraptions and mirrors, making them look in different places to avoid what he didn’t want them to see to create false illusions. The second man, the one with the French name, was pretending to do similar things, but he didn’t use any mirrors or tricks. He did things the way you do,” 

The man in the grey suit nods, “Very good,” 

“Do you know that man?” the girl asks. 

“I have known that man a very long time,” 

“Does he teach these things as well, the way you teach me?” 

Her instructor nods but does not elaborate. 

“How can the people watching the performances not tell the difference?” the girl questions. To her, it had been clear, though she could not properly explain why. It was something she could feel in the air as much as see with her eyes.

“People see what they want to see. And often, what they are told to see,” 

They do not discuss the matter further.

While there are other not-quite-holidays, although very rare, the girl does not see any other magicians. 

Gabriel Agreste uses a pocket knife to cut open his son’s fingertips one by one, watching wordlessly as he cries until he’s calm enough to finally heal them, drops of blood slowly crawling backward. 

The skin melds together seamlessly, swirls of fingerprint ridges finding each other once again, closing solidly one more. 

Adrien’s shoulders fall, releasing the tension that had knotted within them, his relief palpable as he draws himself safely together again.

His father gives him only a moment to rest before slicing each of his newly healed fingers again.

The man in the grey suit takes a handkerchief and drops it on the table where it lands with a thud, something heavier than silk clearly enclosed within the folds. He pulls the square of silk up, tucking it back into his pocket as a single gold ring rolls across the table. It is slightly tarnished and engraved with something the girl thinks might be Latin, the script is looping and flourished, and as small as it is, she cannot make it out. 

“Today,” the man in the grey suit says, “We will be learning about binding,” 

When they reach the point in the lesson where the subject is demonstrated by the man, he instructs the girl to place the ring on her own hand. He never touches the girl, regardless of the circumstances. 

The girl in vain tries to pull the ring from her finger as it dissolves into her skin, pain burning through her hand. 

“Bindings are permanent, child,” the man in the grey suit says, shaking his head. 

“But what am I bound to?” the girl asks, frowning at the red burn mark where the ring had sat just moments ago. 

“An obligation you already had, and a person you will not meet for a long time still. The details are not important at this time. This is merely a necessary precaution.” 

The girl only nods and does not press the man any further, but that night, when she is alone again and unable to sleep, she spends hours holding her hand up against the stars in the sky, wondering who the person she is bound to might be. 

Across the sea, in a crowded theatre that currently thunders with applause for the man on stage, hidden in the shadows formed with unused and discarded set pieces, Adrien Agreste curls himself into a ball and sobs.

* * *

Just before the girl turns nineteen, the man in the grey suit removes her from the townhouse without any notice, setting her up in a modestly sized flat with a view of the Eiffel Tower in the distance. 

At first, she assumes it is just a temporary matter. There have been, recently, journeys which have lasted weeks or even months, to London or Greece or Germany, filled with a great deal more studying than sightseeing. But this is not one of the not-quite-holidays in a fancy hotel that she has grown accustomed to. 

It is a well-sized flat with basic furnishings, so similar to her former rooms that she finds it difficult to feel anything akin to homesickness; save for her old library, though she still possesses a large collection of books, stacked precariously throughout the living room and bedroom. 

There is a wardrobe full of well-cut but nondescript black and grey dresses. Well-tailored bolero jackets. A row of custom-fitted berets.

She only inquires as to when what has only been referred to as her _challenge_ will begin. The man in the grey suit will not say, and this move clearly marks the end of their formal lessons. 

Instead, she continues her studies independently. She keeps notebooks full of symbols and glyphs, working through piles of old notes and finding new elements to consider. She carries smaller volumes with her at all times, transcribing them into larger ones when the pages are filled to the brim. 

She begins every notebook the same way, with a detailed drawing of a tree inscribed in black ink inside the cover page. From there, the branches stretch out onto subsequent pages, tying together lines that form letters and symbols, each page almost entirely covered in ink. All of it– each glyph and word and rune– is twisted around and grounded to the initial tree. 

There is a forest of trees like this, carefully filed and organized on her bookshelf. 

She practices all the things she has been taught, though it is very difficult to see the effectiveness of her illusions on her own. She spends a great deal of time standing in front of a mirror, her head tilted as she regards the reflections. 

Unscheduled and no longer under strict lock and key, she takes long walks around the city. She always finds the sheer volume of people nerve-racking, but the joy of being able to leave her flat whenever she so chooses outweighs nearly everything else. 

She sits in parks and cafes, observing people who pay her no attention as she blends into crowds of interchangeable young women in dull dresses and hats. 

One afternoon, she attempts to return to her old townhouse, thinking that perhaps it would not be an imposition to call on her old instructor for something as simple as a cup of tea, but the building has been completely abandoned, the windows of what had once been her bedroom boarded up. 

As she walks back to her flat, she places her hand to the carefully concealed pocket of her dress and realizes that her notebook is missing. 

She swears aloud, receiving a shocked look from a man her age and a disappointed glare from a woman who must have been ten years older than her, both of whom step aside as she stops short on the pavement. 

She retraces her steps, growing more and more anxious with each turn she takes, still not seeing the book. 

A light rain begins to fall, barely anything more than mist, but several umbrellas spring up in the crowd. She attempts to pull the edge of her beret down to better shield her eyes as she desperately searches the dampening pavement for any sign of her notebook. 

She stops at the corner beneath the awning of a quaint cafe, watching the lamps flicker gently up and down the street, wondering if perhaps she should wait until the crowd thins or the rain lets up. It is then that she notices a young man standing some paces away from her, also sheltered beneath the awning, and he is pouring over a notebook that she is quite sure is her own. 

He looks about twenty, just a tad bit older than she is. His eyes are a paled-down teal, and his hair is a messily combed back black that looks strangely blue; perhaps brought out by his eyes? He wears a suit that would have been fashionable one or two years ago and is slightly damp from the rain. 

She steps closer but the man doesn’t notice, he stays completely absorbed in the pages of the books. He has even removed his gloves so as to better handle the delicate pages. She can now see that this is, indeed, her own journal, open to a page with a card pasted onto it, printed with winged creatures crawling over a spoked wheel. Her handwriting completely covers the card and the paper around it, incorporating it in with the solid text. 

She watches his expression as he flips through the pages; a mixture of curiosity and confusion. 

“Excuse me,” she says after a moment, “But I believe you have my book,” The boy jumps up in surprise and nearly drops the notebook but manages to catch, his gloves fluttering to the ground instead. She bends down to retrieve them for him, and when she straightens and offers them to him, he seems surprised that she is smiling at him. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, accepting the gloves and quickly pushing the journal towards her, “You dropped it in the park and I was trying to give it back, but I’d lost track of you and I…” he sighs, running a hand through his damp hair, “I’m sorry,” 

“That’s quite alright,” she smiles, just relieved to have the notebook back in her possession, “I was very afraid I’d lost it for good, which would have been extremely unfortunate, I owe you my deep gratitude, Monsieur…”

“Couffaine,” he supplies, and it sounds very much like a lie, “Luka Couffaine,” A questioning look follows, clearly waiting for her own name. 

“Marinette,” she says, “Marinette Dupain-Cheng,” The name feels strange in her mouth, her opportunities to speak it out loud falling few and far between. She has written her given name out so many times, and yet it still feels odd to speak it aloud after not having a name for more than a decade. 

The ease at which Luka accepts it makes it feel more real. 

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Mademoiselle Dupain-Cheng,” 

She should thank him and take her book and go; it is by far the most sensible thing to do. But she is not particularly keen to return to her empty flat. 

“Might I buy you a drink as a token of my thanks, M. Couffaine?” she asks after carefully securing the notebook in her pocket. 

Luka hesitates, most likely knowing better than to accept invitations from strangers on darkened street corners. After a moment, to her surprise, he nods. 

“That would be lovely; thank you,” he says slowly. 

“Very well,” Marinette nods, “But there are many better cafes than this one” – she gestures to the window next to them– “within a reasonable distance, if you don’t mind the damp walk. I’m afraid I haven’t brought an umbrella with me.” 

“I don’t mind,” Luka shrugs. Marinette offers him her arm, which he takes, and they set off down the street in the softly falling rain. 

They walk only a block or two and then down a rather narrow alley, where Marinette can feel Luka tense in the darkness, but he relaxes when she stops in front of a well-lit, stained-glass blue and green window. She holds the door open for him as they enter a tiny cafe, one that had quickly become her favorite over the past few months; one of the few places in France where she can truly feel at ease. 

Candles flicker in opaquely colored glass holders on every available surface and the walls are sponge painted beige and yellow. There are minimal patrons scattered throughout the small and intimate spaces, and there are multiple tables empty. They sit at a small table near the window, and Marinette waves the woman behind the bar down, who then brings them two glasses of Bordeaux, leaving the bottle on the table next to a small vase holding a singular, pale pink rose. 

As rain patters gently against the windows, they converse politely about insubstantial things. Marinette volunteers very little personal information about herself and Luka responds in kind. 

When she asks if he is hungry, he gives the standard polite non-answer that betrays she is, indeed, very hungry. She catches the attention of the woman behind the bar again, who returns a few minutes later with a platter of cheese and fruit and slices of baguette. 

“However did you find such a lovely place?” Luka asks.

“Trial and error,” she replies, a smile playing across her lips, “And a great many glasses of horrible wine.” 

Luka laughs, his head tilting back. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Though it seems it has all worked out well in the end. This place is marvelous. It’s like a little oasis.” 

“An oasis with very good wine,” Marinette agrees, taking a delicate sip from her glass. 

“It reminds me a bit of Italy,” Luka says after a moment of silence,” 

“Are you from Italy?” she asks. 

“No,” Luka shakes his head, “Although I lived there for a while,” 

“Ah, I did too,” Marinette smiles, “Though that was a few years ago, now. And you are correct, this place is very Italian– I believe that’s part of the charm. It transports you somewhere different, especially when so many places don’t bother being charming these days.” 

“You’re charming,” Luka says, immediately blushing, looking as though if he could put the words back into his mouth, he would in a heartbeat. 

“Thank you?” Marinette says, tilting her head. 

“I’m sorry,” Luka says, clearly flustered, “I didn’t mean to…” He trails off for a moment, but perhaps emboldened by the wine they have been drinking, he narrows his eyes at her and continues. “There are charms in that book of yours,” she says. He glances at her, waiting for a reaction, but her face betrays nothing and he looks away again. “Charms,” he continues, if only to fill the silence, “Talismans, symbols… I don’t know what all of them mean, but they are charms, are they not?” 

He takes another nervous sip of his wine before daring to look back at her. 

Marinette takes a moment, choosing her words carefully; wary about the direction this conversation is going in. 

“And what does a young man who once lived in Italy know of charms and talismans?” 

“Only the things I’ve read in books,” he answers, “I don’t know what all of them mean. I only know the astrological symbols and some of the alchemical ones, and I don’t know them particularly well, either.” He pauses, as though he cannot decide whether he wants to elaborate, but then he adds. _“La Roue De Fortune;_ the Wheel of Fortune. The card that I saw in your book– I know that card. I have a deck, myself.” 

While before, Marinette had deduced that Luka– although handsome and mildly intriguing– was rather average, this is an interesting revelation. She leans forward, regarding him with a great deal more interest than just a moment before. 

“Do you mean that you read tarot, M. Couffaine?” she asks. 

Luka nods.

“I do, or at least, I try,” he says, “Only for myself, though, which I’m not sure entirely counts as reading, It’s…” he sighs, “It’s just something I picked up a few years ago.” 

“Do you have your deck with you?” Marinette asks. Luka nods again. “I would very much like to see it, if you do not mind,” she adds when he makes no moves to remove it from his bag. Luka glances around the cafe nervously at other patrons. Marinette gives a dismissive wave at his worry. “Don’t worry yourself about them,” she says calmly, “it would take a great deal more than a deck of cards to frighten this lot. Although if you would rather not, I understand,” 

“No, no, I don’t mind,” Luka says, picking up his bag and carefully pulling out a deck of cards wrapped in a scrap of teal silk. He removes the cards from their covering and places them atop the table. 

“May I?” Marinette asks as she moves to pick them up. 

“By all means,” Luka answers, his brow furrowed. 

“Some people do not like it when others touch their cards,” Marinette explains, recalling the details from her divination lessons as she gently lifts the deck. “And I did not want to be presumptuous.” She turns over the top card, _Le Bateleur._ The Magician. Marinette cannot help but smile at the card before replacing it in the pile. 

“Do you read?” Luka asks her. 

“Oh, goodness, no,” she replies. “I am familiar with the cards, but they do not speak to me; not enough for me to properly read.” She looks up from the cards at Luka, still not certain of what to make of him. “They speak to you, though, do they not?” 

“I had never thought of it that way,” Luka admits, “But, yes, I suppose they do.” He sits quietly, watching her flip through the deck. She treats it with the same care he showed the journal, holding the cards delicately by their edges. When she has looked through the entire deck, she places them back on the table. 

“These are very old,” Marinette says. “Much older than you, by the looks of it. Might I inquire as to how they came into your possession?” 

“I found them in a jewelry box in an antique shop years ago, when I was just visiting Paris,” Luka says, “The woman there wouldn’t even sell them to me, just shoved them into my hands and told me to take them away and get them out of her shop. Devil cards, she called them. _Cartes du Diable._ ” 

“People can be very naive about such things,” Marinette shrugs, a phrase that had been so often repeated to her by her instructor as both an admonishment and a warning. “And they would rather write them off as evil than bother to try understanding them. An unfortunate truth, but a truth nonetheless.” 

“What is your notebook for?” Luka asks. “I don’t mean to pry, but I found it very interesting. I hope you will forgive me for looking through it.” 

“Well, we are even on that matter, as you have allowed me to look through your cards,” she says with a wry smile. “But I am afraid it is rather complicated, and not the easiest of matters to explain, or for one to believe.” 

“I can believe quite a lot of things,” Luka says. Marinette does not reply, but watches him as intently as she had regarded his cards moments before. Luka holds her gaze and does not look away. 

It is much too tempting. To have found someone who might even begin to understand the world she has lived in almost her entire life. She knows that she should let it go, but she cannot. 

“… I could show you, if you wish,” she says after a moment. 

Luka smiles at her, “I would very much like that,” 

They finish their wine, and Marinette settles their bill with the woman behind the bar. She places her beret back on her head and takes Luka’s arm as they leave the warmth of the cafe, stepping out into the dreary mist of rain. 

Marinette stops abruptly in the middle of the next block, just outside a large, gated courtyard. It is set back from the street, a cobblestone alcove formed by grey stone walls. 

“This will do,” she says. She leads Luka off of the pavement and into the space between the wall and the gate, positioning him so his back is against the cold and wet stone. She stands directly in front of him, so close he can see the drops of rainwater clinging to her eyelashes. 

“Do for what?” he asks cautiously, nerves creeping into his voice. The rain is still falling around them and he has, quite literally, been backed into a corner. Marinette simply raises a silk-covered hand to quiet him, concentrating on the rain and the wall behind his head.

She has never had someone to try this particular trick on before, and she is rather uncertain she will even be able to manage it. 

“Do you trust me, M. Couffaine?” she asks, watching him with the same intense stare from the cafe, only this time they are much closer.

“Yes,” he says without hesitation. 

“Good,” Marinette says, and with a swift movement, she lifts her hand and places it over Luka’s eyes. 

Startled, Luka freezes. His vision is obscured completely, he can see nothing and feels only the damp silk against his skin. He shivers and is not entirely sure whether it is the nerves, the rain, or the damp chill. A voice close to his ear whispers words he has to strain to even hear and does not understand regardless. And then he can no longer feel the rain, the stone wall behind his back feels rough when moments before it had been smooth. The darkness is somehow brighter, and then Marinette lowers her hand. 

Blinking as his eyes adjust to the light, Luka first sees Marinette in front of him, but something is different. There are no drops of rain on her eyelashes anymore. There are no drops of rain anywhere; instead, there is sunlight casting a soft glow all around them. But even that is not what makes Luka gasp. 

What elicits that gasp in the fact that they are now standing in a forest, and his back is pressed up against a huge, ancient tree trunk. The trees are bare and near-black, their branches stretching into the bright blue sheet of sky above them. The ground is covered in a light dusting of snow that sparkles and shines like diamonds in the sunlight. It is a perfect winter day and there is not a building in sight for miles, only an expanse of snow and wood. A bird calls in a nearby tree, and one in the distance answers it. 

Luka is completely baffled. It is real. He can feel the sun against his sun and the bark of the tree beneath his fingers. The cold of the snow is palpable, although he realizes his suit is no longer wet from the rain. Even the air he is breathing in is unmistakably crisp, country air, with not a hint of the polluted air he has grown used to in Paris. It cannot be possible, but it is real. 

“This is impossible,” he says, turning back to Marinette. She smiles, her bright blue eyes sparkling in the winter sun. 

“Nothing is impossible,” she replies with a small smile. Luka laughs, low-pitched and delighted. 

A million questions rush through his head, but he cannot find the words to articulate any of them. And then, a clear image pops into his mind; a card Marinette had smiled at mere minutes before, back in the cafe. _Le Bateleur._ “You’re a magician,” he states.

“I don’t think anyone has actually called me that before,” Marinette admits, beginning to laugh. She is still laughing when Luka leans down and kisses her. 

The pair of birds circle overhead as a light wind blows through the dark branches of the trees around them. 

To the passerby on the darkened Paris street, they look like nothing out of the ordinary; only young lovers kissing in the rain.

* * *

Papillon gives no formal reason for his retirement from the stage. His tours have been so sporadic in recent years that the lack of performances passes by mostly without notice. 

But Gabriel Agreste still tours, in a manner of speaking, even if Papillon does not. 

He travels from city to city, hiring out his eighteen-year-old son as a spiritual medium. 

“I hate this, Father, truly,” Adrien protests frequently. 

“If you can think of any better way to bide your time before your challenge– and you dare say reading, Adrien– then you are welcome to it, provided it makes as much money as this does. Besides, it is good practice for you to perform in front of an audience.”

“These people are insufferable,” Adrien responds, although it is not at all what he means. He cannot put into words how uncomfortable the way they look at him makes him. Their desperate stares, tear-streaked cheeks, and weepy pleading. They see him as nothing more than a thing, a bridge to their lost loved ones who they are so desperately clinging to.

They often talk about him as though he is not even in the room, as if he is as insubstantial as their beloved ghosts. He must force himself not to cringe when they inevitably embrace him, thanking him through their sobs. 

“These people mean nothing,” his father says, rolling his eyes. “They cannot even begin to understand what it is they think they see and hear. It is much easier for them to believe they are receiving miraculous transmissions from the afterlife. Why not take advantage of that; especially when they are willing to part with so much money for so little?” 

Adrien maintains his opinion that no amount of money is worth such an excruciating and uncomfortable experience, but Gabriel is insistent and so they continue to travel, levitating tables and knocking on all manner of well-decorated walls. 

He remains baffled by the way the clients crave this connection, the reassurance. Not once has he ever wished to contact his deceased mother, despite how much he missed her. Not to mention he doubts she would want to speak with him, even if she could, and especially through such complicated methods. 

_This is all a lie,_ he so often wishes to tell them. _The dead are not hovering nearby to knock politely at teacups and tabletops and whisper through billowing curtains._

He occasionally breaks their valuables, placing the blame on restless spirits. 

His father picks different names from him as they change locations, but he uses Athanase often, presumably because he knows it annoys Adrien to no end. 

After months of it, he is exhausted from all the travel and the strain, and the fact that Gabriel strictly controls his diet, as he claims him looking pale and rather skinny makes him seem closer to the ‘other side’.

Only after he genuinely faints during a session, rather than the perfectly executed choreographed dramatic swoon, is he allowed to return back to their home in New York for a rest. 

At tea one afternoon, in between glares at the amount of jam and whipped butter Adrien is slathering onto his croissant, Gabriel mentions that he has contracted his services for the weekend to a weeping widow across town, who has agreed to pay twice her normal rate. 

“I said you could have a rest,” his father says when Adrien vehemently refuses, not even looking up from the pile of papers he has spread across the dining table. “You’ve had three days, that should suffice. You look fine. You’re a spitting image, of your mother, you know,” 

Adrien looks up from his plate of food, unimpressed, “I’m surprised you even remember what she looks like,” he says scathingly. 

“Do _you_?” his father asks, glancing up at him and continuing when he only frowns in response. “I may not talk about her very much anymore, but she was my wife, you know.” 

He returns his attention to his papers. 

“And what about this challenge you’re supposedly training me for?” Adrien asks, “Or is that just another way for you to make money?” 

“Adrien, son,” Gabriel says, “You have great things ahead of you, but we have relinquished control of when they will begin. Our side does not have the first move. We will simply be notified when it is time to put you on the board, as it were.” 

“Then why does it matter what I do in the meantime?” 

“You need practice,” 

Adrien tilts his head, staring at his father as he puts his hands on the table. All of the papers fold themselves into elaborate shapes: pyramids, helices, cats whose tails flick back and forth, and paper birds with wings that flap, causing them to hover inches above the table. 

His father looks up, annoyed. He lifts a heavy glass paperweight and brings it down on Adrien’s hand, hard enough to break his wrist with a sharp crack. 

The papers unfold and flutter back to the surface of the table, not even wrinkled. 

“You need practice,” Gabriel repeats. “Your control is lacking.” 

Adrien leaves the room without a word, holding his wrist and biting back the tears stinging his eyes. 

“And for Christ’s sake, Adrien, stop crying!” his father calls after him. 

It takes him the better part of an hour to set and heal the broken shards of bone.

Luka sits in a rarely occupied armchair in the corner of Marinette’s flat, a rainbow of silk ribbon twisted around his fingers as he attempts in vain to form it into a single elaborate braid. 

“This seems so silly,” he remarks, frowning at the tangle of ribbons in his hand. 

“It’s just a simple charm,” Marinette says from her desk where she sits surrounded by books. “A ribbon for each element bound together with knots and intent. It’s very similar to your cards, except you’re influencing the subject instead of simply divining its meaning. But it won’t work if you don’t believe it will. I’ve told you that before,” 

“Perhaps I am not in the mood to believe it,” Luka shrugs, loosening the knots and putting the ribbons aside, letting them cascade over the arm of the chair. “I’ll try again later,” 

“Alright, help me out then,” Marinette says, looking up from her books. “Think of something– an object. A significant object that I cannot possibly know about.” 

Luka sighs but he obediently closes his eyes, concentrating. 

“It’s a ring,” Marinette says after a moment, picking the image out of his mind as easily as if he had drawn her a picture. “A silver ring with an aquamarine in the middle, flanked by an onyx on either side.”

Luka’s eyes snap open. 

“How did you know that?” he asks. 

Marinette shrugs, a lopsided grin on her face, “Is that an engagement ring?” 

He clasps his hands to his mouth before he nods. 

“You sold it,” Marinette says, picking up the fragments of memories clinging to the ring like sand particles sticking on clothes long after one has left the beach. “In Barcelona. You ran away from an arranged marriage– that’s why you’re in Paris. That’s the engagement ring you were supposed to give your bride. Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“Well it’s hardly a proper topic for conversation,” Luka says, shaking his head with a grimace, “And you tell me hardly anything about yourself, anyways. For all I know, you could have fled an arranged marriage of your own.”

They stare at each other for a moment while Marinette tries to come up with a proper response, but then Luka laughs. 

“She probably looked for the ring longer than she looked for me,” he says, glancing down at his finger where his wedding band would have rested. “She’d wanted that ring horribly. It was such a lovely thing, too. I almost didn’t want to part with it, but I had no money and nothing else to sell.” 

Marinette starts to say she can tell he received quite a good price for the ring, but then there is a knock on the door of the flat. 

“Is that the landlord?” Luka whispers to her, but Marinette puts a finger to her lips and shakes her head cautiously. 

Only one person ever knocks on the front door completely unannounced. 

Marinette waves Luka into the adjoining study before she answers. 

The man in the grey suit does not enter the flat. He has never bothered to enter the space since he orchestrated the transition, pushing his student into the real world. 

“You will be applying for a position to work for this woman,” he says without any greeting, taking a faded business card from his pocket. “You will likely need a name,” 

“I have a name,” Marinette informs him. 

The man in the grey suit does not inquire as to what that might be. 

“Your interview is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon,” he says, “I have handled a number of business matters for Mademoiselle Bourgeois of late and I have put in a strong recommendation, but you should do whatever is necessary to secure the position,” 

“Is this the beginning of the challenge?” Marinette inquires. 

“This is a preliminary maneuver, to place you in an advantageous position.” 

“Then when _does_ the challenge start?” she asks, although she has asked the question dozens of times before and never received a firm answer from her mentor. 

“That will become clear at the time,” the man in the grey suit says. “When it does begin, it would be wise to focus your attention on the competition itself,” –his eyes move pointedly to the closed door leading to the study– “without any distractions,” 

He turns and stalks back down the hall, leaving Marinette standing in the doorway, reading and rereading the name and address on the faded card.

Gabriel Agreste eventually relents to his son’s insistence that they remain in New York, but he does so for his own reasons and purposes. 

While he makes occasional comments that Adrien should be practicing more, for the most part, he ignores him, spending all his time alone in his upstairs parlor. 

Adrien is actually quite pleased with the arrangement and spends most of his time reading. He sneaks out to bookstores, surprised when his father doesn’t bother inquiring where the piles of freshly bound books come from. 

And he does practice, very often, breaking all manner of things around the house in order to put them back together again. He makes books fly around his room like birds, calculating how far they can travel before he has to adjust his technique. 

He becomes very adept at manipulating fabric– learning how to alter his suits as expertly as a master tailor to accommodate the weight he has regained, his body finally back to healthy. 

He often has to remind his father to come out of the parlor for meals, though lately, he has refused more and more often, barely leaving that room at all. 

Today, Gabriel will not even respond to his son’s insistent knocking. Irritated and knowing he has surely charmed the locks so that Adrien will not be able to unlatch them with his own set of keys, he kicks the door with his boot, and to his surprise, it swings open. 

His father stands by a window, staring intently at his arm as he holds it out in front of him, the sunlight filtering in through the frosted glass and falling over his sleeve. 

His hand fades completely and then returns. He stretches his fingers, frowning at the audible creaking of his joints. 

“What are you doing, Father?” Adrien questions, curiously overpowering his annoyance. It is not something he has ever seen him do before, either onstage stage on in the privacy of her lessons. 

“Nothing to concern yourself with,” his father says, pulling the lacy cuff on his shirt down over his hand. 

The door slams shut in Adrien’s face.

* * *

The dartboard hangs precariously on a wall in the study, between tall bookcases and ornately framed oil paintings. It is practically camouflaged in the shadows despite its bold yellow and black pattern, but the knife reaches its target each and every time it is thrown regardless, very near the bull’s-eye that is obscured by the newspaper clipping pinned to the board. 

The clipping is a theatrical review, an article carefully removed from _le Parisien._ It is a positive review; some might even call it glowing. Nevertheless, it has been put in this position of execution, and the silver-handled knife is being thrown at it. The knife slices through the paper and sinks into the cork of the dartboard. It is retrieved and removed only to have the same process repeated again. 

The knife is being thrown gracefully from the handle so it rotates over and over perfectly until the tip of the blade finds its mark by Chloè Bourgeois, whose name is printed in clear, typeset letters in the last line of the aforementioned newspaper clipping. 

The sentence that holds her name is the particular one that has incensed Mlle. Bourgeois to the point of knife-throwing. A single sentence that reads thusly: “Mlle. Chloè Bourgeois continues to push the boundaries of the modern stage, dazzling her audiences with a spectacle that is almost transcendent.” 

Most theatrical producers would likely be flattered by such a remark. They might even clip the article for a scrapbook of reviews, perhaps quote it for references and referrals. 

But not this particular theatrical producer. No, Mlle. Chloè Bourgeois instead focuses on that penultimate word. Almost. _Almost._

Again, the knife flies across the room, over furniture made with velvet and intricately carved wood, passing perilously close to a crystal decanter of brandy. It somersaults swiftly, handle over blade, and finds itself deep in the dartboard once again. This time it pierces the now nearly shredded paper in between the words “audiences” and “spectacle,” obscuring the “with” completely. 

Chloè follows in the wake of the knife, pulling the blade from the board carefully, but with a fair amount of force. She walks back across the room, knife in one hand, a glass of brandy in the other, and turns swiftly on one heel, letting the knife fly once more, golden hair flying around her as she aims for that horrible word. _Almost._

Clearly, she must be doing something wrong. If her productions are merely ‘almost transcendent’ when the possibility of _true_ transcendence is attainable somewhere, not too far away, then there is something else that must be done. 

She has been pondering this ever since the review was placed on her desk, neatly clipped and labeled by her assistant. Additional copies have been filed elsewhere for posterity and safekeeping, as many desk copies often meet gruesome fates such as these while Chloè agonizes over every word. 

Chloè relishes in the reactions of her audiences. Genuine reactions, at that, not the standard polite applause so many producers garner. She often values the reactions of the show itself. A show without an audience, in her opinion, is nothing. In the response of the audience; that is where the power of performance lives. 

She was raised in the theatre, sitting in boxes at the ballet. Being such a restless child, she quickly grew bored with the familiarity of the dances and chose to watch the audience instead. She loved to see when they smiled and gasped, the women sighed of boredom, and when the men began to nod off. 

So perhaps it is not terribly surprising that now, many years later, she still has more interest in the audience than in the performance itself. Although, Mlle. Bourgeois often says the performance must be absolutely miraculous in order to coerce the best reactions. 

And because she is incapable of observing the faces of every audience member at every performance at every show (shows that range from compelling drama to dancing and singing women, and a few that creatively combine the two), she relies on the reviews. 

Though it must be said, there has not been a review in some time that vexes her the way that this particular one does. And certainly, not one in years that has provoked knife throwing. 

The knife flies once again, finally piercing the word that invoked her wrath in the first place. _Almost._

Chloè goes to retrieve it, sipping her brandy on the way. She regards the nearly decimated article curiously for a moment, peering at the near-illegible words. Then, she screeches for Marinette.

* * *

_With a ticket in everyone’s hand, patron after patron continues in a straight line toward the circus, watching the rhythmic motions of the infamous black-and-white clock as they wait._

_Beyond the ticket booth, the only way forward is a silk striped curtain. One by one, each person passes through it, completely vanishing from sight._

_The next person in line pulls back the fabric and steps forward, only to be engulfed by darkness as the curtain closes again behind them._

_It takes them a few moments for their eyes to adjust, and then tiny dots of light begin appearing like stars, illuminating the dark walls in front of them._

_And while just moments ago each patron was so close to each other that their shoulders were practically brushing, now each unit feels alone as they feel their way tentatively forward through the maze-like tunnel; only illuminated through tiny pinpricks of light._

_The tunnel twists and turns, the small lights providing minimal guidance through hallways. There is no way to tell how far each person has gone, or which direction they are even moving in anymore._

_Finally, they reach another curtain. Fabric that feels as soft as silk beneath their hands' parts easily when they touch it._

_The light on the other side is blinding._

* * *

Midnight Dinners are a tradition at _la Maison de Bourgeois._ They were originally concocted by Chloè on a whim, brought about by the combination of chronic insomnia and keeping theatrical hours, along with an innate dislike of proper dinner-party etiquette. There are places to get a meal after hours, but none of those places particularly suit Chloè’s sophisticated tastes. 

Thus, she began throwing elaborate, multi-course dinners, with the first course always served at midnight. It was precisely at midnight, too; at the moment the grandfather clock in the foyer begins to chime, the first plates are placed on the table. Chloè feels that it adds a sense of ceremony. The earliest Midnight Dinners were small, intimate gatherings of friends and colleagues. Over time, they have become more frequent and more extravagant, eventually turning into something of an underground sensation. An invitation to a Midnight Dinner is coveted in higher-class circles of Parisian society. 

The dinners are always highly selective. Though occasionally there may be as many as thirty people, there have been as few as five before. Anywhere from twelve to fifteen guests if somewhat standard. The cuisine is exquisite regardless of the number of guests in attendance. 

Chloè never provides menus for these events. Some similar dinners, if there were diners that anyone could truly consider similar, might have carefully printed menus on sturdy paper describing each course in great detail, or perhaps just listing an intriguing title or name. 

But the Midnight Dinners have an air of nocturnal mystery already, and Chloè finds that providing no menu, no map of the culinary route, adds to the experience. Dish after dish is brought to the table, some easily identifiable as quail or rabbit or lamb; served on banana leaves or baked in apples or garnished with brandy-soaked cherries. Other courses are more enigmatic, concealed with sweet sauces or spiced soups– unidentifiable meats hidden in pastries and glazes. 

Should a guest inquire as to the nature of any particular dish; question the origin of a bite or seasoning, a flavor they cannot put their finger on (for even a chef, of which Mlle. Bourgeois has invited many, cannot identify each and every flavor), they will not be given a satisfying answer; Chloè simply shrugging. 

She will often remark that “the recipes belong to the chefs themselves and I am not one to deny them their privacy.” The curious guest will return to the mysterious plate in front of them, perhaps remarking that, whatever the secrets, the dish is quite impressive, and continue to wonder where the peculiar flavor might have come front as they savor each bite with a certain amount of thoughtfulness. 

Conversations at these dinners are largely reserved from the time between courses. 

In truth, Chloè prefers not to know all the ingredients, to not understand each technique. She claims that such ignorance gives each dish life; makes it more than the sum of its parts. 

(“Ah,” one of the guests remarked when the topic arose. “You prefer not to see the gears of the clock, as to better tell the time.”)

Mlle. Bourgeois has never been one for such poetic metaphors, but she must admit it is rather close to the truth of the matter. 

The desserts are always astonishing. Confections deliciously executed in chocolate and butterscotch, berries bursting with creams and liqueurs. Cakes layered to near impossible heights, pastries lighter than air. Figs that drip with honey, sugar blown into flowers, and curls. Often, the diners will remark that they are too pretty, too impressive to eat, but they always find some way to manage it. 

Chloè refuses to reveal the identity of her chefs. One rumor supposed that she has culinary geniuses from around the world kidnapped and imprisoned in her kitchen, when they are forced by questionable means to cater to her every whim– this theory, of course, was quickly refuted. Another implies that the food is not cooked on the premises and is indeed imported from the best restaurants in Paris, paid extra to stay open at such a late hour. This argument often results in debates as to how the hot food is kept and hot and cold food cold, which never come to any true conclusions, and tends to make the debaters rather hungry. 

Regardless of the origin, the food is always delectable. The decor in the dining room (or rooms, depending on the size of the event), although often redone, is as extraordinary, as is the rest of the house. At the moment, the walls are covered in gold foil wallpaper, deep velvets covering the room with art and artifacts from across the globe carefully displayed on every available surface. Everything is lit by crystal chandeliers and carved candles, so the lighting is not so much bright as it is deep and warm. 

There is often entertainment of some sort or another: dancers, conjurers, musicians playing exotic music. The more intimate gatherings are typically accompanied by Chloè’s personal pianist; a lovely young woman who plays continuously through the entire evening and not once speaks a word to anyone. 

They are dinner parties like any other, though the ambiance and the late hour have transformed them into something else– something unusual and curious. Chloè has an inherent flair for the unusual and curious: she, unlike many producers, understands the power of atmosphere. 

On this particular night, the Midnight Dinner is a rather small one, with only five invited guests. And, unlike many other dinners, this is not merely a social gathering. 

The first to arrive (after the pianist, who is already playing) is Mme. Audrey Bourgeois, a retired prima ballerina; and also Chloè’s mother, although their relationship has already been a strained one. Chloè now often refers to her as Tante Audrey, which many have come to accept, although not without a great deal of questions and curious looks first. She is a stately woman, the grace of a dancer still visible despite her age, along with her impeccable sense of style. She is a fiend for aesthetics with an eye for fashion that is both unique and coveted in Paris, which provides her with a rather sizable income since her retirement from ballet. 

The woman is called a magician with clothing, the title often mentioned in papers. A miracle worker, many other designers call her. Mme. Bourgeois dismisses these comments, although she often jokes with enough silk and beading, she could make nearly anyone the most fashionable of ladies. 

This evening, Mme. Bourgeois wears a dress of black silk, hand-embroidered with intricately stitched koi fish, something like a kimono reincarnated as a gown. Her silver-streaked gold hair is piled atop her head in a perfect bun and held in place with a jeweled black pin. A choker of perfectly cut scarlet rubies circles her neck, putting forth the vague impression that her throat has been cut. The overall effect is very elegant, although slightly morbid. 

Monsieur Christopher Lahiffe is an engineer and architect of some renown, and is the second of the guests to arrive. He looks as though he has wandered into the wrong building and would be more at home in an office or bank with his timid manner and nervous eyes darting around the room. He met Chloè only once before, at a symposium on ancient Greek architecture. The dinner invitation comes as quite the surprise; M. Lahiffe is not the type of man who receives invitations to unusual late-night social functions, or usual social functions, for that matter, but he had deemed it too impolite to decline. Besides, he has long desired a look inside the Bourgeois townhouse, which is something of a legend amongst his colleagues who work in interior design.

Within just moments of his arrival, he finds himself with a glass of sparkling wine in hand, exchanging pleasantries with a former prima ballerina. He decides that he rather enjoys unusual late-night social functions, and perhaps ought to attend them more frequently. 

The Cèsaire sisters arrive together, as they are never seen without the other. Ella and Etta do a little bit of everything. Sometimes they are actresses, sometimes dancers. Once they attempted to be trapeze artists like their older sister, Alya, although that is a subject they will only discuss if thoroughly intoxicated. They have, of late, become something of a business in consulting. They offer advice on subjects ranging from relationships to finance to travel and shoes. Their secret (which they will also discuss if properly intoxicated) is their highly developed skill of observation. They see every detail, notice the tiniest nuances. And if ever Etta were to miss something, Ella would catch her oversight, and vice versa. 

They find they enjoy resolving other people’s issues via suggestion that doing all the work themselves. It is much more satisfying, they say. 

They are identical: both with the same waves of chocolate hair and large, bright hazel eyes that make them appear younger than they actually are; not that either of them will admit their age or if they are twins as many people believe. They wear fashionable gowns that do not match each other exactly but coordinate beautifully, one complementing the other. Where one has a loose, chiffon bodice and a more form-fitting skirt, the other wears a tight, sweetheart neckline bodice with a flowing skirt that just skims the floor. One is dressed in baby blue, the other in pale pink. 

Mme. Bourgeois greets them with the practiced disinterest she reserves for young and pretty girls but warms when they so enthusiastically compliment her hair and jewels and dress. Monsieur Lahiffe finds himself somewhat smitten, although he cannot tell with which one, which is perhaps because he cannot tell them apart. He likes to believe this is simply the wine.

The last guest arrives shortly before dinner, just as the rest of the guests are being seated and the wine is being poured. He is a rather average man of intermediate age with indistinct features. He wears a spotless grey suit with tails and gives his top hat and cane to the servant at the door, and a card with the name “Monsieur W. F--.” He nods politely at the other guests as he sits, but says nothing. 

Chloè joins them at this point, followed closely by her assistant, Marinette; a beautiful young woman who briefly draws the attention of all the guests before blending back into the background. 

“I have invited you all here for a reason,” Chloè says, “as I’m sure you have surmised by now. However, it is a business matter, and I find those should always be discussed on a full stomach, so we shall save the official discourse for after dessert.” She waves vaguely at one of the waiters and as the clock in the hall begins to chime a low, heavy sound which reverberates throughout the house twelve times, the first course is brought out. 

The conversation is pleasant and flows consistently over the subsequent courses. The ladies are much more talkative than the men. In fact, the man in the grey suit barely utters a single word. And though few of them have met before, by the time the _plats principaux_ are cleared, an observer would have thought they had known each other for years. 

When dessert is finished just a few minutes before two o’clock in the morning, Chloè stands and clears her throat, smoothing her golden dress down. 

“If you would all be so kind as to join me in the study for coffee and brandy, we may now get down to business,” she says. She nods at Marinette, who slips away, rejoining them upstairs in the study with several large notebooks and rolls of paper in hand. Coffees and brandies are poured and the guests settle on various couches and armchairs around the crackling fireplace. After lighting a cigar, Chloè begins her speech, punctuating it with delicate puffs of smoke. 

“Your company has been requested this evening because I have a project I am beginning, an endeavor, you might say. I do believe it is an endeavor that will appeal to all of you, and that you may each, in your unique ways, aid in the planning. Your assistance, which is entirely voluntary, would be both appreciated and very well compensated.” she says. 

“Stop beating around the bush, my dear, and tell us what your new game is,” Mme. Bourgeois says, swirling her glass of brandy. “Some of us aren’t getting any younger,” One of the Césaire sisters, no one is quite sure which is which, giggles at this. 

“Of course, Tante Audrey,” Chloè says, although the tone of respect sounds rather forced. “My new game, as you so appropriately called it, is a circus.” 

“A circus?” says the sister in pink with a smile. “How marvelous!” 

“Do you mean like a carnival?” M. Lahiffe asks, soundly mildly perplexed. 

“More than a carnival,” Chloè responds, “More than even a circus, really; something like no circus anyone has ever seen. Not a single large tent, but a multitude of smaller ones with a particular exhibition in it. No elephants or clowns. No, something more refined and magical than that. Nothing commonplace. This will be different, this will be an utterly unique experience, a feast for the senses. Theatrics sans theatre, an immersive entertainment. We will destroy any presumptions and preconceived notions of what a circus is and make it something else entirely; something new.” She gestures to Marinette, who spreads out the rolls of paper on the table, holding down the corners with an assortment of paperweights and oddities (a honeycomb carved from marble, a pure white butterfly suspended in glass). 

The plans are predominantly sketches surrounded by messily scrawled notes. They show only fragments of ideas: a ring of tents, a central promenade. Lists of possible attractions or acts are written down the sides, some crossed out or circled. Fortune-teller. Acrobats. Conjurer. Constrotionsists. Dancers. Fire artists. 

The Césaire sisters and M. Lahiffe pore over the sketches, reading each note as Chloè continues. Mme. Bourgeois smiles but remains seated, sipping her brandy. Monsieur W. F-- does not move, his expression inscrutable and unchanged. 

“It is merely in the conceptual stages, and that is why I ask you all here now; for the inception and development. What it needs is style, aesthetic. Ingenuity in its engineering and structure. To be infused with mesmerizing details, and perhaps a touch of mystery. I believe you are the proper group for this undertaking. If any of you disagrees, you are welcome to leave, but I ask you to speak of this to no one. I prefer that these plans be kept undisclosed entirely, at least for now. It is all very sensitive at this point, after all.” She takes a long draw off her cigar, blowing out the smoke slowly before Chloè concludes, “If we do things properly, this will undoubtedly take on a life of its own.” 

There is silence when she finishes. Only the crackle of the fire fills the room for several minutes as the guests look from one to the other, each waiting for another to respond. 

Finally, M. Lahiffe speaks up. “Might I have a pencil?” Marinette hands him one, and M. Lahiffe begins drawing, taking the rudimentary sketch of the circus layout and developing it into a complex design. 

Chloè’s guests remain there until the sun begins to rise, and when they do finally depart, there are three times the number of diagrams and plans and notes than there had been when they arrived, strewn and pinned around the study like maps to an unknown treasure.

* * *

The announcement in the paper states that Gabriel Agreste, better known as Papillon, the entertainer and stage magician of great renown, died of heart failure in his home on the fifteenth of March. 

It goes on about his work and his legacy for some time. The age listed is erroneous, a detail very few readers manage to perceive. A short paragraph at the end of the obituary mentions that he is survived by a son of nineteen years of age; a Monsieur Adrien Agreste. This number is more accurate. There is also a notice that though the funeral services will be private, condolences may be sent via the address of one of the local theatres. 

The cards and letters are carefully collected, placed in bags, and brought by messenger to the Agreste’s private residence; a townhouse that is already overflowing with appropriately somber floral arrangements. The scent of lilies is stifling and when Adrien can finally no longer tolerate it, he transforms all the flowers into peonies. 

Adrien leaves the condolences piled on the dining-room table until they begin to overflow into the lounge. He does not want to deal with them, but he cannot bring himself to toss them away unread. 

When he is unable to avoid the matter further, he makes a pot of tea and begins to tackle the mountains of paper. He opens each piece of mail one by one and sorts them into piles. 

There are postmarks from around the globe, there are long and earnest letters filled with genuine despair, there are empty well-wishes and hollow praises of her father’s talents. Many of them comment that the senders were unaware that the great Papillon even had a son. Others remember him fondly, describing a delightfully, small boy that Adrien does not even recall being. A few include rather oddly phrased marriage proposals. 

Those, in particular, Adrien crumples into balls, placing the crushed spheres on his open palm one by one and concentrating until they burst into flame, leaving nothing but cinders on his hand that he brushes away into nothingness. 

“I am already _married,”_ he remarks to the empty air, twisting the dark, iron ring on his left hand that covers an old, distinctive scar. 

Amongst the letters and cards, there is a plain grey envelope. 

Adrien pulls it from the pile, slicing it open with a silver letter opener, ready to throw it on the pile with the rest. 

But this envelope, unlike all the others, is addressed to his father properly, although the postmark is after his date of death. The card inside is not a note of sympathy nor a condolence for his loss. 

It contains no greeting. No signature. The handwritten words across the paper read: _Your move._

And nothing more. 

Adrien turns the card over, but the reverse side is blank. There is not even a stationer’s imprint on the surface. There is no return address written on the envelope. 

He reads the two words on the grey paper several times. 

He cannot tell if the feeling creeping up his spine is excitement or dread. 

Abandoning the remaining condolences piled on the table, Adrien takes the card in hand and leaves the room, ascending a winding staircase that leads to the parlor upstairs. He pulls a ring of keys from his pocket and impatiently unlocks three separate locks in order to access the room, one now drenched in the bright afternoon sun. 

“And what is this about?” Adrien says, holding the card out in front of him as he enters. 

The figure hovering by the window turns. Where the sunlight hits him, he is all but invisible. Part of a shoulder appears to be missing, the top of his head vanishes in a flutter of sun-caught dust. The rest of him is transparent, like a reflection in glass. 

What is left of Gabriel Agreste reads the note and laughs delightedly.

* * *

Approximately once a month, there are not-quite regularly scheduled Midnight Dinners that are most often referred to by the guests as Circus Dinners. They are a nocturnal amalgam of social events and business meetings. 

Mme. Bourgeois is always in attendance, and one or both of the Césaire sisters are a staple. M. Lahiffe joins them as often as his busy schedule will allow, as he travels frequently is not as flexible as he would prefer. 

Monsieur W. F-- appears rarely. Etta often remarks that they seem to have more productive post-dinner meetings when he is in attendance, though he offers only the occasional suggestion as to how the circus should be regulated. 

On this particular evening, only the ladies are present. 

“And where is Monsieur Lahiffe this evening?” Mme. Bourgeois inquires after the Césaire sisters arrive on their own; since he so commonly accompanies them. 

“He’s in Germany,” Ella and Etta chorus in perfect unison, making Chloé laugh quietly as she hands them each a glass of sparkling wine. 

“He’s tracking down a clockmaker,” Ella continues alone, “Something about commissioning a piece from him for the circus. He seemed very enthused about it before he left.” 

Tonight’s dinner has no scheduled entertainment– not even the standard piano accompaniment, but entertainment arrives without warning or invitation at the door nonetheless. 

She gives her name as Tikki, although she does not clarify if this is her first or last name. 

She is small, but not tiny. Long, scarlet-red hair is carefully drawn up into an elaborated braided bun atop her head. She wears a black coat that is perhaps a size too large for her, but she carries herself in such a way that it seems to hang like a cloak and the effect is rather elegant. 

Marinette leaves her in the foyer, waiting patiently beneath the looming gold elephant statue, while she attempts to explain the situation to Chloé, which of course results in the entire dinner party filing out into the hall to see what the fuss is about. 

“What brings you here at this hour?” Chloé asks, clearly perplexed. Stranger things have happened at _la Maison de Bourgeois_ than unexpected dinner entertainment, and the pianist does occasionally send a replacement when she is unavailable for a dinner. 

“I have always been nocturnal,” is Tikki’s only response, and she does not elaborate as to what twist of fate brought her to this spot at this time, but the smile that accompanies her cryptic statement is both warm and contagious. The Césaire sisters beg Chloé to let her stay, and, although still confused, she agrees. 

“We are about to sit down for dinner,” Chloé says with an eyebrow raised. “But you are welcome to join us in the dining room to do… whatever it is that you do,” 

Tikki gives a small curtsey, and the smile appears again. 

While the rest of them file into the dining room, Marinette takes her coat, hesitating when she sees what lies beneath it. 

She wears only a thin wisp of a gown that would likely be considered scandalous anywhere besides the current company, who are not so easily scandalized. It is more a delicate swath of black silk held in place by a delicately tied bow of scraps of red chiffon with a tightly laced corset than a proper dress. 

And it is not the relative insubstantiality of her clothing that causes Marinette to stare, but the tattoos that snake across her skin. 

At first, it is difficult to even tell what they are, the shower of black marks curling around her shoulder and neck, ending just above her dress and disappearing behind the laces of her corset in the back. It is impossible to tell just how far the tattoo travels. 

Upon a closer look, it can be discerned that the swirl of tattoos is more than just black marks. It is a flowing waterfall of alchemical and astrological symbols– ancient marks for planets and elements all emblazoned in black ink upon her fair skin. Mercury. Lead. Antimony. Constellations dot what Marinette can see of her back like freckles. Yin and yang sit at the nape of her neck, a ladybug in the center of yin, and a black cat curled up in yang; an Egyptian ankh near one collarbone (on the other is a stretching cherry blossom branch– the only tattoo in color). There are other symbols as well; Norse runes, Chinese characters. There are countless tattoos, and yet they meld and flow into one design gracefully adorning her like an elegant, albeit unusual, piece of jewelry. 

Tikki catches Marinette staring, and although the raven-haired girl does not inquire about the numerous tattoos, she says quietly, “It is a part of who I was, who I am, and who I will one day be,”

And then she smiles kindly at the younger girl and walks into the dining room, leaving Marinette alone in the hall, just the clock begins chiming midnight and the first course is served. 

She slips off her shoes by the doorway and walks barefoot to an area near the piano that consistently catches the best light from the candles and chandeliers. 

At first, she simply stands relaxed and calm, while the diners regard her curiously until it becomes extremely clear what her style of entertainment is. 

Tikki is a contortionist.

Traditionally, contortionists are either front bending or back bending, depending on the flexibility of their respective spins, and their tricks and performances are based on this important distinction. Tikki, however, is one of the rare contortionists who is equally flexible both ways.

She moves with the grace of a trained ballerina, a detail Mme. Bourgeois notes and mentions in a whisper to the Césaire sisters even before the more impressive feats of agility and flexibility begin. 

“Could you do such things when you were a dancer?” Etta asks her, voice no more than a whisper as Tikki pulls a leg up impossibly far over her head. 

Mme. Bourgeois laughs quietly, “I would have had a much busier social calendar if I could,” 

Tikki is a near faultless performance– if perfection were to exist, she would be truly perfect. She adds the perfect amount of flourishes, holds positions, and pauses for an ideal amount of time. Although she twists her body in unimaginable and painful-looking positions, her calm and lovely smile remains in place at all times. 

Her audience forgets both their conversations and their dinner as they watch. 

Ella remarks to her sister after the performance that she was certain there was music, although there is no sound at all save for the rustle of silk and the dull crackle of fire. 

“This is what I’ve been talking about!” Chloé exclaims loudly, hitting the table with one open palm; breaking the charmed and peaceful quiet. Etta nearly drops her fork– the entirely wrong utensil, one might add, for the chilled watermelon soup she was about to dip it in– but Tikki continues her graceful motions seemingly, although her smile increases slightly. 

“This?” Mme. Bourgeois asks, “What do you mean Chloé, dear?” 

“This!” Chloé exclaims again, this time pointing a finger to the sky, “This is the precise aesthetic the circus should be. Unusual yet beautiful. Provocative while still elegant. This is nothing short of fate, her coming here tonight. We simply must include her in the circus, I will not accept anything less. Marinette, get this lady a chair.” 

A place is swiftly set for Tikki; her smile bemused as she joins them at the table. 

The conversation that follows involves more creative coercion than a true job offer, and there are several long-held deviations into the subjects of ballet, modern fashion, and all types of mythology.

After five courses and perhaps a bit too much wine, Tikki allows herself to be persuaded to accept an invitation to perform in the currently non-existent circus. 

“Well then,” Chloé says. “We are set as far as contortionists go. That’s a marvelous start.” 

“Shouldn’t there be more than one?” Ella questions, her brow furrowed, “An entire tent, like the one we have for the acrobats?” 

“Nonsense,” Chloé replies, “Better to have a single, perfect diamond than a mountain of flawed stones. We’ll make a showcase of her; put her in the courtyard or something similar.” 

The matter is considered settled, at least for the moment, and throughout dessert and after-dinner drinks, the only subject discussed is the circus itself. 

Tikki leaves a card providing information as to how to contact her with Marinette as she departs, and she soon becomes somewhat of a necessity at the Circus Dinner performing either before or after, so as not to distract the guests during the meal. 

She remains Chloé’s favorite, oft-referenced example of what the circus should be.

* * *

There is an unprecedented gathering of illusionists in the lobby of the theatre. A gaggle of pristine suits and strategically placed silk handkerchiefs. Some have trunks and capes, others birdcages or silver and gold-topped canes. They do not speak to each other as they wait to be called in, one at a time, referenced not by name (given or stage), but instead by a number written on a small slip of paper given to them upon their arrival. Instead of chatting or gossiping or sharing tricks, they shift in their seats and cast rather disdainful glances at one young man in particular. 

Many mistook him as belonging somewhere else when he first arrived, but he sits waiting in a chair with his numbered slip of paper (17). 

He has no trunk, no cape, no birdcage nor cane. He is dressed in a deep emerald suit, a black overcoat with gold embroidery buttoned over it. His golden hair is carefully brushed and combed, barely peeking out under a lovely, but rather unremarkable, black hat. His face maintains a semblance of youthfulness, in the length of his eyelashes and slight glow to his skin, despite the fact that he is clearly too old to be properly considered a boy. However, it is difficult to discern his age, and no one dares to ask him such an improper question. The others think of him as a boy regardless, and refer to him as such when they refer to him long after the auditions are over. He acknowledges no one, despite the rather obvious glances and occasional outright stare. 

One by one, each illusionist is called in by their number by a woman dressed impeccably well with a list and a notebook who escorts them through a gilded door on the side of the lobby, and one by one, each one returns to the lobby and exits the theatre. Some last only minutes, while others remain in the theatre for quite some time. Those with higher numbers– for they go up to nearly 40– shift impatiently in their seats as they wait for the woman with the notebook to reappear and politely call the number on their respective slip of paper. 

The last illusionist to enter the gilded door (a rather large man with a top hat and flashy fuschia cape) returns to the lobby rather quickly and visibly aggravated, flouncing through the exit back onto the street, letting the theatre doors slam shut behind him. The sound is still echoing through the lobby when the woman with the notebook reappears, nods absent-mindedly at the room, and clears her throat. 

“Number seventeen,” Marinette says clearly, checking the number on her list. 

All the eyes in the room turn as the boy rises from his seat and steps forward. 

Marinette watches him approach, confused at first, although the confusion is quickly replaced by something else entirely. 

She could tell from across the room that he was lovely, but when he is near enough to look her in the eyes, the loveliness- the shape of his face, the contrast of golden hair against relatively tan skin– evolves into something so much more. 

He is entirely radiant. For a moment, while they look at each other, she cannot remember what, exactly, she is supposed to be doing, or why he is attempting to hand her a piece of paper with the number seventeen written on it in her own handwriting. 

“This way, please,” she manages to say as she takes his number and holds the door open for him. He bobs his head as a thank-you, by the time the door is slowly swinging shut, the entire lobby is buzzing with whispers. 

The theatre is both massive and ornate, with rows upon rows of plush red velvet seats. Orchestra, mezzanine, and balcony spreading out from the empty stage in a cascade of crimson. It is empty, save for two people seated approximately ten rows back from the stage. Chloé Bourgeois sits with her feet propped up on the chair in front of her, despite the looks her mother keeps throwing her from the seat to her right. 

Marinette emerges from the wing of the stage, her crimson and black dress blending in perfectly with the rest of the theatre as the boy in the emerald suit trails behind her. She gestures for him to move to the center of the stage, unable to take her eyes off him as she announces him to the mostly empty theatre. 

“Number seventeen,” she says before descending the small set of stairs near the proscenium and hovering by the edge of the front row, pen poised over her open notebook. 

Mme. Bourgeois smiles and tucks her watch back into her bag, and Chloé tilts her head curiously before whispering to her mother, “He’s quite a handsome one, isn’t he?” 

Her mother shoots her a rather disdainful glare. 

Marinette turns to address the boy, “We have just a few questions before the practical demonstration. Your name, monsieur?” 

“Adrien Agreste,” 

Marinette records this in her notebook. 

“And your stage name?” she asks. 

The corner of his lip quirks up as he answers this question, “Chat Noir,” he answers. Marinette notes this as well. 

“Where have you performed professionally?” 

“I have never performed professionally before.” 

At this Chloé pouts, now beginning to inspect her nails, though Mme. Bourgeois lightly slaps her arm, reminding her to pay attention. 

“Then with whom have you studied?” Marinette asks. 

“With my father,” Adrien answers. He pauses for a moment before adding, “Though I believe you all might better know him as Papillon,” 

Marinette drops her pen, hiding her shaking hands in the billowing folds of her scarlet dress. 

“Papillon?” Chloé removes her feet from the chair in front of her, leaning forward and staring at Adrien as though she is now seeing a completely different person. “Your father is Papillon?” 

“Was,” Adrien clarifies, “I’m sad to say he passed last year,” 

“I’m sorry for your loss, dear boy,” Mme. Bourgeois says. “But who, exactly, was Papillon?” 

“Only the greatest illusionist of his generation!” Chloé exclaims. “I used to book him whenever I could, although that was years ago now. Absolutely brilliant, that man, completely mesmerized every audience. Never seen anyone who could match him, not once.” 

“He would have been very pleased to hear that, Mademoiselle,” Adrien says, his eyes briefly glancing over to the shadowed curtain at the side of the stage. 

“Oh, I’ve told him as much, though I haven’t seen him in ages. I got rather drunk with him at a pub some years ago and he went on about pushing the boundaries of what theatre could be, inventing something more extraordinary. He probably would have loved this whole endeavor. Damned shame.” She sighs heavily, shaking her head. “Well, on with it then,” she says, leaning back in her seat and regarding Adrien with a considerable amount of interest. 

Marinette, pen in hand once more, returns to her list of questions, although her voice is now shaking. 

“Are– are you capable of performing without a stage?” 

“Yes,” Adrien answers. 

“And can– can your illusions be viewed from all angles?” 

Adrien smiles. “You are looking for someone who can perform in the midst of a crowd?” he asks Chloé. She nods. “I see,” Adrien says. Then, so swiftly he appears to have not even moved at all, he takes off his jacket and flings it out over the seats where, instead of tumbling down, it swoops up, folding in on itself. In the blink of an eye folds of fabric are now glossy black feathers, large beating wings, and it is impossible to pinpoint the moment when it is fully a raven and no longer cloth. The raven swoops over the red velvet seats and up into the balcony, where it flies in curious circles. 

“Impressive,” Mme. Bourgeois says, a perfectly manicured eyebrow raised. 

“Unless he had concealed it in the sleeves,” Chloé mutters. On stage, Adrien crosses closer to Marinette. 

“May I borrow that for a moment?” he asks her, indicating to her notebook. She hesitates for a moment before handing it over to him. “Thank you,” he says with a smile, returning to the center of the stage. 

He barely glances at the list of questions in precise handwriting before tossing the notebook straight up in the air where it turns end over end and the blur of fluttering paper becomes a gold-eyed falcon flapping its wings and taking flight in a loop around the theatre. The raven caws from its perch on the balcony. 

“Ha!” Chloé exclaimed, both at the falcon and the expression on Marinette’s face. 

The falcon swoops back down to Adrien, settling gently on his outstretched arm. He strokes its wings and then releases it back into the air. It lifts up only a few feet above his head before the wings are paper once more and it topples quickly down. Adrien catches it with one hand and gives it back to Marinette, whose complexion is quite a few shades lighter than normal. 

“Thank you,” Adrien says with another heart-stopping smile. Marinette nods absently, not meeting his eyes, and quickly retreats into her corner. 

“Miraculous, absolutely miraculous,” Chloé says. “This could work. This could most definitely work.” She rises from her seat and moves down the aisle, stopping to pace thoughtfully in front of the orchestra pit by the footlights. 

“There is the matter of costuming him,” Mme. Bourgeois calls toward her from her seat, “We must consider what would suit him best,” 

Adrien tilts his head. “What manner of costume do you require?” 

“We have a color scheme to work with, dear,” Mme. Bourgeois explains to him from her seat, “Or lack thereof, really. Nothing but black and white. But on you, I think all black would perhaps be too funeral,” 

“I see,” Adrien muses for a moment. 

Mme. Bourgeois stands and moves down the aisle to where Chloé is pacing. She whispers something in her ear and the younger woman turns to consult with her, taking her eyes off Adrien for a moment. 

No one is watching him except Marinette as he stands perfectly still on the stage, waiting patiently. And then, very slowly, his suit begins to change. 

Starting at his neck and seeping down like ink, his green suit is turning to a pristine white. 

Marinette cannot hold back her gasp. Chloé and Mme. Bourgeois turn at the sound just in time to witness the snow-bright white turn into midnight black at his pants, until all evidence his outfit was ever green is gone– even the emerald silk tie, now a glowing silver. 

“Well,” Mme. Bourgeois says, “I suppose that makes my job a fair bit easier.” She cannot conceal the delight in her eyes as she takes in his new outfit. “Though I think perhaps your hair and eyes stand out too much,” 

Adrien looks down at the floor for a moment, and when he looks back up, the vibrancy of his hair is gone, now a nearly white blonde. His eyes are such a murky and paled down green they could easily pass for grey. 

“Miraculous,” Chloé says, almost to herself. 

Adrien simply smiles. 

Chloé leaps up to the stage, taking the small flight of stairs in only two steps, nearly breaking her impossibly high heels. She inspects Adrien’s suit from every angle. 

“May I?” she asks before carefully touching the fabric of his suit jacket. The silk is undeniably black and white, the transition between the two a soft fade of grey, distinct fibers visible in the weave. 

“What happened to your father, if you don’t mind me asking?” she asks, her attention still mostly on the suit. 

“I do not mind,” Adrien says calmly. “One of his tricks did not go as he had planned,” 

“That’s a damned shame,” Chloé says, shaking her head as she steps back, “Say, Monsieur Agreste, would you be interested in a somewhat unique employment opportunity?” 

She snaps her fingers and Marinette approaches with her notebook, halting a few paces away from Adrien, her stare moving from his suit to his hair and back again, spending a considerable amount of time between. 

Before he can respond, a caw echoes through the theatre from the raven still perched on the balcony, watching the scene in front of him curiously. 

“Just a moment,” Adrien says. He lifts his hand in a delicate gesture at the raven. In response, it caws again and spreads its large wings, taking flight and swooping toward the stage, gaining speed as it approaches. Descending quickly, it dives, flying directly at Adrien and not wavering or slowing down as it reaches the stage, but approaching at full speed. Chloé jumps back in shock, almost falling over Marinette as the raven crashes into Adrien in a flurry of feathers. 

And then, it is simply gone. Not a single feather remains and Adrien is once again wearing a black overcoat, although the once gold embroidery is now silver, already buttoned over his black and white outfit. 

In front of the orchestra, Mme. Bourgeois claps. 

Adrien bows, a small smile on his face, fishing out a pair of gloves from a pocket of his coat. 

“He’s perfect,” Chloé remarks, shaking her head as she repeatedly taps Marinette on the arm, “Absolutely perfect,” 

“Yes,” Marinette agrees, both her voice and the notebook in her hands shaking. 

The illusionists waiting in the lobby grumble when they are thanked for their time and politely dismissed. 

None of them notice that the previously unperturbed girl with the notebook has a broken pen clutched tightly in a trembling fist, nor the black ink running down her wrist.

* * *

_The patrons step into a bright, open courtyard surrounded by striped tents._

_Curving pathways along the perimeter lead away from the courtyard, turning into unseen mysteries dotted with twinkling lights._

_There are vendors traversing the crowd, selling both refreshments and oddities, creations flavored with vanilla and honey, chocolate, and cinnamon._

_A contortionist in a black costume dotted with silver stars twists on a platform nearby, bending her body into impossible shapes._

_A group of children flocks around_ Le Bulleur _as he twists and shapes his bubbles into any image imaginable; taking great joy when they realize that no matter how much they poke and prod, the bubbles cannot be popped._

_It is a courtyard of miraculous impossibilities. And all of it is bathed in glowing light._

_The light emanates from a large bonfire in the center of the courtyard, which many of the entering patrons walk towards._

_The fire itself sits in a wide, black iron cauldron, balanced on a number of clawed feet. Where the rim of a cauldron would be, it breaks into long stirps of curling iron, as though it has been melted and stretched like taffy. The curling iron continues up until it curls back into itself, weaving in and out amongst the other curls, giving in a near cage-like effect. The flames are visible in the gaps between and rising above. They are obscured only at the bottom, so it is impossible to tell what, exactly, is burning– wood or coal or something else entirely._

_The flames are not yellow or orange, but white as fresh-fallen snow as they dance among the curls of iron._

* * *

Opening day, or rather opening night, is spectacular. Every last detail is planned to perfection, and a massive crowd gathers outside the gates long before sundown. When they are finally allowed to enter, they do so wide-eyed, and as they move from tent to tent, their eyes only get wider. 

Every element of the circus blends together in a wonderful haze of magic and smoke. Acts that have previously been training in separate countries on separate continents now perform in adjacent tents, each melding together seamlessly into a whole. Each costume, each design, each gesture, each sign on each tent is even more perfect than the last. 

Many give credit to Etta and Ella for this effect, but even they shake their heads, mystified by how perfect it all seems. 

They assume it is the magic of the whole endeavor. 

Even the air itself is ideal– clear and crisp and cool– permeated with scents and sounds that entice and enchant one patron after another. (This, Etta and Ella _do_ take credit for) 

At midnight, the bonfire is ceremoniously lit. having spent the earlier part of the evening standing empty, simply appearing to be a sculpture of twisted iron, although the idea of it merely being one baffles most patrons. Twelve of the fire performers quietly enter the courtyard, each carrying a small platform that they set up around the perimeter of the cauldron like numbers on a clock. Precisely one minute before the hour, they each ascend their respective platforms and pull from their backs shimmering white bows and arrows. At thirty seconds before midnight, they light the tips of their arrows with small, dancing yellow flames. Those in the crowd who had not previously noticed them now watch in curiosity and wonder. At ten seconds before the hour, they raise their bows and aim the flaming arrows at the awaiting cauldron of curled iron. As the clock begins to chime near the gates, the first archer lets his arrow fly, soaring over the crowd and hitting its smark in a shower of sparks. 

The bonfire ignites in an eruption of yellow flame. 

Then, the second chime follows and the second archer sends his arrow into the yellow flames. Suddenly, the flickers of flame are a crystalline blue.

With the third chime comes a third arrow, and the flames a warm, bright pink. 

Flames the color of a ripe pumpkin follow the fourth arrow. 

A fifth, and the flames are an acid green. 

The sixth chime brings a deep, sparkling crimson. 

Seven, and the fire is soaked in a color like incandescent wine. 

Eight, and the flames are a shimmering violet. 

Sparks of pure gold follow the ninth chime.

A tenth chime, a tenth arrow, and the bonfire turns the deepest, midnight blue. 

On the penultimate chime, the dancing flames change from blue to black, and for a moment it is difficult to discern the fire from the cauldron that surrounds it. 

And on the final strike, the dark flames are replaced with a blinding white, a shower of sparks falling like snowflakes around it. Huge curls of dense, white smoke swirl up into the night sky. 

The reaction from the crowd is uproarious. The spectators who had been considering turning in for the night decide to stay just a little longer and comment enthusiastically about the lighting of the fire. Those who do not witness it themselves harder believe the stories told minutes or hours later. 

People roam from tent to tent, wandering down paths that loop over each other, never seeming to really end. Some enter each tent they pass while others are more selective, choosing which tents to enter after careful consideration of the signs. Some find a particular tent so fascinating that they are unable to exit it, opting to stay there for the entire duration of their visit. Patrons make suggestions to other patrons on the winding pathways, pointing out remarkable tents they have visited. Their advice is always taken happily, although the advisees often get distracted by one tent or another before reaching the recommended one. 

It is difficult to usher the remaining patrons out as dawn begins to creep up, the circus awash in yellow light, and they are consoled by the fact that they may once again visit the circus as soon as the sun sets again. 

All said, opening night is an undeniable success. 

There is only one minor mishap of sorts; one unexpected occurrence. It passes by unnoticed by any of the patrons, and even many of the performers are unaware until after opening night has come and gone. 

Just before sunset, while the last-minute preparations are being made (costumes meticulously adjusted, both by Mme. Bourgeois and Marinette, who has an unspoken talent for such things, and caramel melted), the wife of the trapeze artist goes into labor. She is, when not in such a delicate state, his partner in these acts. Their act has been modified so her husband may do it alone, but everyone in the trapeze tents seems agitated. 

She is expecting twins, although they are not due for another week or two. Many of the performers joke it is because they did not want to miss opening night. 

A doctor is brought to the circus before it opens to the public and is escorted discreetly backstage for the delivery (a far easier feat to accomplish than moving her to the hospital). Six minutes before midnight, Louis Aidan Lahiffe is born. 

Seven minutes after midnight, his sister, Emma Marie Lahiffe, follows. 

When the news is relayed to Chloé, she is mildly disappointed that the twins are not identical. She had already thought up various roles in the circus for identical twins to perform once they were old enough. Fraternal twins, on the other hand, lack the amount of theatricality she had expected, although she has Marinette send over two enormous bouquets of peonies anyway. 

They are tiny things, each with a rather surprising amount of bright red hair. They barely cry, staying awake and alert, taking in the world with wide blue eyes. They are wrapped in spare bits of satin and silk– black for her and white for him. 

A steady stream of circus performers comes to see them in between their acts, taking turns holding them and inevitably remarking their exquisite and rather miraculous timing. They will fit right in, everyone says, save for their hair. Someone suggests hats until they are old enough for hair dye. Someone else remarks that it would be a travesty to dye over such a color, a shocking red so much brighter than their mother’s auburn, and certainly their father’s brown. 

“It is an auspicious color,” Tikki comments, tugging on a lock of her own scarlet hair which has been studded with black rhinestones to dull the shock of the color in a monochromatic circus. She refuses to elaborate on the meaning of her statement, but kisses each twin and the forehead and later makes strings of folded paper cats and ladybugs to hang above their cradle. 

Close to dawn, when the circus is beginning to empty, they are taken for a walk around the tents and into the courtyard. The purpose is clearly to lull them asleep, but they stay awake, watching the lights and the costumes and the stripes of the tents around them, strangely alert for being just a few hours old. 

Not until the sun has risen do they finally close their eyes, side by side in the black wrought-iron cradle lines with striped blankets that already awaits them, despite their early arrival. It was delivered as a gift a few weeks earlier, though it had no card or note. The Lahiffes assume it was a gift from Chloé, though when they thank her for it, she claims she does not know what they were talking about. 

The twins are extremely fond of it, regardless of its dubious origins. 

No one recalls afterward exactly who it was that dubbed them Lou and Emmy. As with the cradle, no one takes credit for it. 

But the nicknames stick, as nicknames do. 

Marinette spends the first several hours of opening night taking surreptitious glances at her watch, waiting impatiently for the hands to reach midnight. 

The unexpected early arrival of the Lahiffe twins, although wonderful, has complicated her schedule already, but if the lighting of the bonfire proceeds as planned, it ought to be enough. 

It is the best solution she can come up with, knowing that in a few weeks, the circus will be hundreds of miles away, leaving her in Paris. 

And while Luka may prove helpful– having taken the job of fortune teller at the circus– she still needs a stronger tie. 

Ever since she discovered the venue for the challenge, she has been slowly taking on more responsibility for the circus. Doing all that Chloé asked of her and more, to the point where she was given free rein with everything from approving the design of the gates to ordering the canvas for the tents. 

It worries her, the scope of this binding. She has never once attempted something on this scale, but there seems no good reason not to start off the game as strongly as possible. 

The bonfire will provide her with a connection to the circus, even though she is not entirely certain how well it will work. And with so many people involved, it seems sensible to add an element of safety to the venue. 

It has taken her months of preparation. 

Chloé was more than willing to let her organize the lighting, having already deemed her invaluable to the circus planning with only mild coercion. A wave of a hand, and the details were all up to her. 

And most important, Chloé agreed to let it be a secret. The lighting itself took on the same air of mystery as a Midnight Dinner, with no questions permitted as to the ingredients or menu. 

No answers are provided as to what the arrows are tipped with to create such an astounding effect, as to how the flames shift from one vibrant hue to another. 

Those who did inquire, either during preparations or rehearsals, were told that to reveal the methods would ruin the effect. 

Though, of course, Marinette has been unable to rehearse the most important part. 

It is easy enough for her to slip away from Chloé in the crowded courtyard just before midnight. 

She makes her way toward the twisted iron, moving as close as she can to the empty cauldron. She takes a large leather-bound notebook from her coat, a perfect copy of one that has been safely locked in her office. No one in the milling crowd notices as she tosses it into the bottom of the cauldron. It lands with a thud that if muffled by the ambient noises. 

The cover flips open, exposing an elaborate ink tree to the star-speckled night sky. 

Marinette stays close to the edge of the twisted metal while the archers take their places. 

Her attention remains completely focused on the flames despite the press of patrons around her as the fire is amplified through a rainbow of hues. 

When the last arrow lands, she closes her eyes. The white flames burn red through her eyelids. 

Adrien was expecting to feel like a poor imitation of his father during his first performances, but to his relief, the experience is vastly different than the one he watched so many times in theatre after theatre. 

The space is small and intimate. The audiences are modest enough that they remain individual people rather than an anonymous crowd of shadows. 

He finds that he is able to make each performance unique, letting the response of the audience influence what he does next.

While he enjoys it more than he thought he would, he is immensely grateful for the stretches of time to himself in-between. As it nears midnight, he decides to see if he can find a place to discreetly watch the lighting of the bonfire. 

But as he makes his way through the area that is already being referred to as backstage, despite the lack of a stage, he is quickly swept up in the somewhat ordered chaos surrounding the impending birth of the Lahiffe twins. 

Several of the performers and staff have gathered, waiting anxiously. The doctor who had been brought in seems to find the entire situation strange. The contortionist, Tikki, comes and goes between her own performances in the courtyard. Nino Lahiffe paces like a worried cat. 

Adrien endeavors to be as helpful as he can, which consists mainly of fetching cups of tea and finding new and creative ways to assure people that everything will be fine. 

It reminds him so much of consoling his old spiritualist clients that he is taken aback when thanked by name. 

The soft cry that sounds minutes before midnight comes as a relief, met by sighs and cheers. 

And then, something else immediately follows. 

Adrien feels it even before he hears the applause echoing from the courtyard, the shift that suddenly spreads through the circus like a tidal wave. 

It courses through his body, sending an involuntary shiver up his spine, almost knocking him off his feet. 

“Are you alright?” a voice says from behind him, and he turns to find Tikki laying a warm hand on his shoulder to steady him. The too-knowing gleam that Adrien is beginning to find familiar shines in the contortionist's smiling eyes. 

“I’m fine, thank you,” Adrien answers, struggling to catch his breath. 

“You are a sensitive person,” Tikki says, a wave of scarlet hair tumbling over her shoulder as she tilts her head, “It is not unusual for sensitive people to be affected by such events.” 

Another cry echoes from the adjoining chamber, joining the first in a gentle chorus. 

Tikki’s lips quirk up in a shadow of a smile, “They have remarkable timing.” she says, tilting her head towards the newborn twins. 

Adrien can only nod. 

“It is a shame you missed the lighting,” Tikki continues, “It was remarkable as well,” 

While the Lahiffe twins’ cries subside, Adrien tries to shake the feeling that remains, tingling across his skin like electric sparks. 

He is still unsure as to who his opponent is, but whatever move has just been made, it has rattled him. 

He feels the entirety of the circus radiating around him, as though a net has been thrown over it, trapping everything within the iron fence, fluttering like the butterflies Adrien remembers his father keeping in cages. 

He wonders how he is supposed to retaliate.

* * *

_In this tent, swirling portals of powder blue so light they’re nearly white scatter both the edges and center of the scarcely lit area– only dotted with glowing lamps that hang from the top of the tents like stars. Patrons are invited to stand by one, although they are not sure what they are standing there for._

_This is one of the tents in which the number of people allowed inside is limited. In the blink of an eye, every light in the tent flashes out, and when they flutter back on, a woman is standing next to each and every portal._

_It seems to be the same woman (the white hair fading to pastel pink is very distinctive), but at different stages in her life._

_At one portal, she is a young girl, clutching a stuffed bunny with a dress the same color as the portals, although her hair remains the same._

_She leans against another portal as a young adult, wearing a black leather jacket with a white undershirt and white shorts, popping white bubblegum._

_Many other versions of her standing against the dozen other portals– a pre-teen holding roller-blades, a fifteen-year-old holding a watch with a hologram coming out of it, an older woman wearing a carefully tailored suit._

_They speak to the patrons in unison, instructing them to think of a memory, any memory in their lives. Patrons close their eyes, picturing an important moment– so often a person, although some picture places or events._

_Each version of the girl tilts their head at the person near the portal._

_The portals begin to emit silver sparks, and an image swirls in each one._

_Many of the patrons gasp, reaching out to touch the image, although the memory ripples when they touch it like a reflection on water._

_Some cry, seeing the face of a long-gone loved one staring back at them._

_The woman smiles, sometimes truly happy, sometimes a comforting one for the distraught patrons. They let the guests stare into the portals for a few minutes, and then in a flash of bright white, the images, portals, and woman disappear._

_All that is left in the room beside the patrons are mementos, lying at the foot of each guest, each one unique and pertaining to the memory the portals had displayed mere moments ago._

_While the guests can no longer see the performer, they burst into applause before leaving the tent._

_Although they have left Le Briseur Du Temps behind, the objects stay in their pockets, a heavy reminder of whatever memory they have been shown._

* * *

There are fewer Circus Dinners now that the circus itself is properly up and running, gaining its own self-sufficiency, as Chloé phrased it at one dinner not long after opening night. The original conspirators still gather for dinner occasionally, particularly when the circus is performing nearby, but it has become more and more infrequent. 

Monsieur W. F–– does not appear, despite his standing invitation. 

And as these meetings were the only opportunity Marinette was given to see her instructor, the continued absence frustrates her to no end. 

After a year without a sign; without any word or single glimpse of a grey top hat, Marinette decides to call on him. 

She does not know her instructor’s current residence. She assumes, rightly, that it is likely an entirely temporary place and by the time she has tracked down the proper location her instructor would have moved to a new, equally temporary residence. 

Instead, Marinette carves a series of symbols into the frost on the window of her flat that faces out to the street, using the columns of the museum beyond as a guide. Most of the symbols are indistinguishable unless the light hits them at precise angles, but they are collectively set into the shape of a large _W._

The next day, there is a knock on the door. 

As always, the man in the grey suit refuses to enter the flat. He only stands in the hall and fixes Marinette with a cool, dark brown stare. 

“What do you want?” he asks. 

“I would like to know if I am doing well,” Marinette says, crossing her arms. 

Her instructor looks at her for a moment, his expression inscrutable and unemotional as ever. 

“Your performance has been adequate.” he says. 

“Is this how the challenge is going to proceed?” Marinette asks in exasperation, “Each of us manipulating the circus? How long will this go on?” 

“You have been given a venue to work within,” her instructor replies, “You present your skills to the best of your ability and your opponent will do the same. You do not interfere with each other’s work. It shall continue in this manner until there is a victor. It is not that complex,” 

“I’m still not certain I understand the rules,” 

“You don’t need to understand the rules,” the instructor says, dark eyes narrowing under the grey brim of his hat, “You need to follow them. As I said, your work is adequate,” 

He starts to leave, then hesitates. 

“Do not do that again,” he says finally, pointing over Marinette’s shoulder to the window. 

The symbols on the glass melt into meaningless streaks. 

Once she is sure her instructor has left, Marinette collapses into a chair in exhaustion, papers fluttering around her. 

It is the middle of the day, and the circus sleeps quietly, but Adrien Agreste stands in front of the Shattered Mirrors, watching as his memories flicker across the glass. Where his reflection would be is instead a black cat– _un chat noir_ – with bright green eyes. 

“I despise this thing,” a voice behind him says. 

Gabriel Agreste is barely more than an apparition in the dimly lit tent; too much light would ruin the entirely glass exhibition. His silvery suit vanishes in the mirrors. The shifting light catches and releases the brightness of his shirt and tophat, the pale color of his hair, illuminating the disapproving glare Gabriel is currently giving his son. 

“Why not?” Adrien responds without turning away from the mirror. “It’s extremely popular. And it took a great deal of work, that ought to count for something, Father,” 

His father’s derisive scoff is only an echo of what it once was, and Adrien is relieved that his father cannot see his small smile at the lightness of his voice. 

“You would not be so reckless about this if I were not…” he trails off with a wave of his transparent hand next to Adrien’s arm. 

“Don’t be cross with me about that,” Adrien says firmly, “You did it to yourself– it’s not my fault you can’t undo it. And I am hardly being reckless. I’m manipulating the circus as I’ve been told to do,” 

Gabriel shakes his head platinum and grey hair falling into his eyes, “How much did you tell this architect of yours?” 

Adrien continues staring at the mirrors– unlike him, his father is not reflected at all in the mirror; animal, illusion, or otherwise. “I told him what I thought he needed to know. He’s rather fond of pushing boundaries, and I offered to help him push them further. Is Monsieur Lahiffe my opponent? That would be quite devious of him; building me a tent like this just to avoid suspicion.” 

“He is not your opponent,” Gabriel says with a dismissive gesture, the lace cuff of his shirt fluttering like a butterfly’s torn wings. “Though such a thing could very well be considered cheating.” 

Adrien shoots his father an innocent smile, “How is utilizing an engineer to execute an idea not working within the venue, Father? I discussed an idea with him; he handled the design and construction, and I…” he pauses, looking for the right word, “embellished it. Would you like to approach it? Perhaps you could see it better then,” 

“No, I wouldn’t,” Gabriel says, looking at the fractals of shattered glass, hazy memories and dreams and loves reflected in each one. “I still don’t like it,” 

Adrien sighs, “You don’t like anything, Father,” He walks closer to a mirror, staring at the memory of his audition for _Le Cirque du Miraculeux._ “There are already countless elements in the circus that are collaborative. Why can I not use them to my advantage? You keep insisting that I must do more than just my performances, but I need to create opportunities in order to manage that. Monsieur Lahiffe is very helpful in that respect.” 

“Working with others will only drag you down. These people are not your friends,” Gabriel says sternly, “They are all inconsequential. And one of them is your opponent; don’t forget that.” 

“You know who it is, don’t you?” Adrien asks. 

Gabriel gives a nonchalant shrug, “I have my suspicions,” 

“But you won’t tell me what those are,” 

Gabriel crosses his arms, and where his body should be in the mirrors, a tiny spark flickers. Adrien catches a glimpse of blue eyes before it disappears. “The identity of your opponent does not matter,” 

“It matters to me,” Adrien says softly. 

His father frowns, watching as he absently toys with the ring on his left hand. 

“It shouldn’t,” he says. 

“But my opponent knows who I am, yes?” 

Gabriel raises an eyebrow at his son, “Unless your opponent happens to be profoundly stupid, I would assume so. And it is very much unlike Winston to choose a stupid student. But it _doesn’t matter,_ Adrien. You should be doing your own work without any influence from your opponent, and without any of this _collaborating_ as you you call it,” 

He waves an arm at the Shattered Mirrors and the mirrors begin to quiver, as though the smallest of winds has wandered into the tent. 

“How is any of this better?” Adrien asks, watching the black cat in front of him mirror his actions and tilt its head. “How is one thing better than another one? How are any of my tents better than my competitors? How can any of this possibly be judged?” 

“That is not your concern,” Gabriel scoffs, and for a moment a butterfly flickers in one of the mirrors. 

Adrien closes his eyes, expression almost pained. “Father, how can I excel at this game if you refuse to tell me the rules?” 

Every memory and image in the fragmented mirrors turns its head in the direction of the ghost in the room, freezing exactly in place. 

“Stop that,” Gabriel snaps at his son. The memories continue to play out, but the black cat hisses at him before going back to mirror Adrien’s movements. “You are not taking this as seriously as you should,” 

“It’s a circus,” Adrien says with a sarcastic smile on his face, “It’s rather difficult to take seriously,” 

“The circus is only a venue,” 

“Then this is not just a game or a challenge, Father. It’s an exhibition, of some sort,” 

Gabriel scoffs, “It’s more than that,” 

“How?” Adrien demands, but his father only shakes his head.

“I have told you all the rules you need to know. You push the boundaries of what your skills can do, using this circus as a showplace. You have to prove that you are better and stronger. You do everything you can to outshine your opponent,” 

“And when do you determine which of us is shinier?” 

_“I_ do not determine anything,” Gabriel says, “Stop asking questions. Do more manipulations. And stop collaborating,” 

Before Adrien can respond, Gabriel vanishes, leaving him standing alone in the shattered reflections of the tent. 

At first, the letters Marinette receives from Luka arrive frequently, but as the circus travels further away to far-flung cities and countries, weeks and sometimes months stretch wordlessly between each letter. 

When a new letter finally arrives, she does not even take off her coat before ripping open the envelope. 

She skims the opening pages that are filled with polite inquiries into her own days in Paris, the remarks of how much he misses the city, misses her. 

The goings-on of the circus are dutifully reported, but with such matter-of-fact precision that she cannot picture it in the full detail she desires. He glazes over things he considers mundane, the traveling and the train, although Marinette is sure that the entire production cannot travel solely by train. 

The distance of the circus feels more pronounced despite the carefully penned contact in ink and paper. 

And there is so little about _him._ Luka does not even inscribe his name on the pages, referring to him in passing only as Chat Noir– a precaution she had advised, although now regrets. 

She wants to know everything about him. 

How he spends his time when not performing. 

How he interacts with his audiences. 

How he takes his tea. 

She cannot bring herself to ask Luka these things. 

When she writes him in return, she requests that he continue to write as often as possible. She emphasizes how much his letters mean to her. 

She takes the pages inscribed with his handwriting, descriptions of striped tents and star-speckled skies, and folds them into birds, letting them fly around the empty flat. 

It is so rare to have a new tent appear that Adrien is tempted to cancel his performances for the evening to spend the entire evening investigating it. 

Instead, he waits, executing his standard number of performances, finishing a few hours before dawn. Only then does he begin to navigate the winding paths to find the latest edition to the circus. 

The sign announces something called the Ice Garden, and Adrien smiles at the small addendum below which contains an apology for any thermal inconvenience.

Despite the obvious name, he is still not prepared for what awaits him when he enters the tent. 

It is exactly what the sign described, but at the same time, so much more than that. 

There are no stripes visible on the walls, everything is sparkling and icy white. He cannot tell how far the tent stretches– the size obscured by weeping willows, twisting ivy, and delicate cherry blossoms. 

Even the air itself is magical. It is crisp and sweet in his lungs as he breathes, sending shivers down his toes that are caused by so much more than just a drop in temperature. 

There are no patrons in the tent as he explores, circling alone around the trellises covered in pale roses and a softly bubbling, elaborately carved fountain. 

Although it moves fluidly, Adrien can tell that, like everything else in the tent (save for a few scraps of white silk wrapped around columns), the fountain is made entirely out of ice. The sheets of ice bend and flow like water, but when he attempts to stick his hand through the sheet, he is met with a solid surface. 

Curious, Adrien picks a frosted snapdragon from its stem, and it breaks off easily. 

But as soon as it is plucked, the petals begin to shatter, falling from his fingers to the ground, disappearing in the blades of crystalline glass below. 

When he looks back at the stem, an identical flower has already grown. 

Adrien cannot imagine how much power and skill it would take, not only to construct but maintain such a delicate and detailed thing. 

He longs to know how his opponent came up with the idea. As he stares at the tent, he is sure that each perfectly structured topiary, each detail, down to the stones that line each path like pearls, must have been planned. 

It would be so taxing to manage something similar, and he feels fatigued even considering it. He almost wishes his father was there, as he is beginning to understand why he had always been so adamant about building up his strength and control. 

Though, Adrien is not entirely sure he would like to thank his father for it. 

And he likes having the space to himself, the stillness and the calm sweetened with the scent of icy crispness and flowers. 

Adrien remains in the Ice Garden long after the sun rises outside, watching as the morning glories begin to bloom. 

The circus is back in Paris, after a great deal of time away, traveling to places far and wide. 

Just as the circus is opening, the beaded curtains part with a sound like rain, and Marinette enters the fortune-teller’s tent. Luka immediately flicks a strand of chiffon twisted into his hair from his face as the impossibly thin teal silk of his cloak floats around him like mist. 

“What are you doing here?” he asks. 

Marinette ignores his question, holding out her open notebook. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?” Luka leans forward, and in the flickering light he can make out a bare black tree. It is not like the trees inscribed in so many of her books; this one is covered in dripping white candles. Surrounding the main drawings are detailed sketches of twisting branches, capturing the tree at several different angles. 

“That’s the Wishing Tree,” Luka states the obvious, and then adds, almost in afterthought, “It’s new,” 

“I know it’s new,” Marinette says impatiently. “Why didn’t you tell me about it?” 

Luka shrugs, “I haven’t had time to write to you. And I wasn’t even sure whether or not it was something you had done yourself. It seemed like something you might have made. It’s lovely, the way wishes are added to it, by lighting candles with the ones that are already lit and adding them to the branches. New wishes ignited by old wishes.” 

“It’s his,” Marinette says simply, putting the notebook down. 

“How can you be certain?” Luka asks. 

Marinette pauses, looking down at the sketch. She is rather annoyed that she cannot properly capture the beauty of the thing in her hastily rendered drawings. 

“I can feel it,” she finally says, “It is like knowing a storm is coming; the shift in the rain around it. As soon as I walked into the tent, I could sense it, and it is even stronger closer to the tree itself. I am not certain someone would be able to tell if one was unfamiliar with the sensation.” 

Luka tilts his head, “Do you think he can feel what you do in the same way?” 

Marinette has not considered this before, though it seems rather likely. She finds the idea strangely pleasing. 

“I can’t be sure,” is all she says to Luka. 

He pushes the silk hood of the cloak back around his neck. “Well,” he says, “now you know about it, and you can do whatever you like with it.”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Marinette says with an almost laugh, “I can’t use anything he does for my own purposes. Our two sides need to remain separate. If we were playing a game of chess, I couldn’t simply remove one of his pieces from the board. My only option is to retaliate with my own pieces when he moves his.” 

“But there cannot possibly be an endgame, then,” Luka says with a furrowed brow, “How can you checkmate a circus? It doesn’t make any sense,” 

“Well, that’s because it’s not exactly like chess,” Marinette says, struggling to explain something she has only just begun to understand, although she cannot properly articulate it. She glances at Luka’s table, where a few cards remain face-up. One in particular catches her attention. 

“It’s like this,” she says, pointing at the woman with her scales and sword. _La Justice._ “It’s a set of scales: one side is mine, the other his,” 

A set of silver scales appears on the table between the cards, balancing precariously, one side piled high with aquamarines, the other with peridots. 

“So the object is to tip the scales in your favor?” Luka asks. 

Marinette nods absent-mindedly, turning through the pages of her notebook. She keeps flipping back to the page with the tree. 

“But if you both keep adding to your side of the scale, increasing on the weight on each side in turn,” Luka says, watching the scale gently sway back and forth, “won’t the whole thing break?” 

Marinette tenses up for a minute before the scale vanishes. “I do not believe it is an exact comparison,” she says in a strained voice. 

Luka frowns at the empty space. “How long is this going to continue?” 

“I have no idea,” Marinette says, “Do you want to leave?” she adds, looking up at him, although she is unsure what response she wants for the question. 

“No,” Luka says, though after a moment, “I… I don’t want to leave. I like it here, I truly do. But I would also like to understand. Maybe if I understood more, I could be a better help.” 

“You are helpful,” Marinette says, not nearly as heartfelt as Luka might have been hoping for, “Perhaps the only advantage I have is that he does not know who I am. He only has the circus to react to and I have you to watch him.” 

“But I haven’t seen any reactions,” Luka protests, “He keeps to himself, mostly. He reads more than nearly anyone I’ve ever seen, but sometimes he fences with Riposte. The Lahiffe twins adore him. He has been nothing but kind to me. I have never seen him do a single thing out of the ordinary beyond what he performs. You say he is making all these moves and yet I never see him do anything. How do you know that tree is not Christopher Lahiffe’s work?” 

“Monsieur Lahiffe creates impressive mechanics, but this is not his doing,” Marinette says with an amused smile, “Though he had embellished Christopher’s carousel, I’m sure of that. I doubt even an engineer of his skill can make a mirror that shows every person exactly what they want to see. And that tree is rooted to the ground, it is a living tree even if it does not have leaves.” She turns her attention back to her sketch, tracing the lines of the tree with her fingertips. 

“Did you make a wish?” Luka asks quietly. 

Marinette closes her notebook without answering the question, although her blue eyes are perhaps a bit more watery than before. “Does he still perform on the quarter hour?” she asks, drawing a watch from her pocket. 

“Yes, but… you’re really going to sit there and watch his show?” Luka asks. “There’s barely room for twenty people in that tent, he’ll surely notice you. Won’t he think it strange that you’re here?” 

“He won’t even recognize me,” Marinette says with a dismissive wave as the watch vanishes from her hand. “Whenever there is a new tent, I would appreciate it if you let me know.” 

She turns and walks away, moving so quickly that the silver flames shiver with the motion of air. 

“I miss you,” Luka says, but Marinette does not stick around long enough to hear it.

He tugs the teal mist of cloak hood back down over his face. 

After the last of his patrons has departed in the early hours of the morning, Luka takes his _Tarot de Marseilles_ deck from a locked cabinet in his desk. He carries it with him always, though he has a separate deck for circus readings, a custom-made version in black and white and shades of grey. 

From the Marseilles deck, he draws a single card. He knows what it is even before he turns it over, however, he still sucks in a startled breath. The angel emblazoned on the front is only a confirmation of what he already knew. 

He does not return it to the deck.

* * *

While the circus is no longer directly in Paris, but they have traveled to a smaller suburb about an hour away, the train creeping in just around nightfall without drawing any notice. The train doors collapse, doors and halls sliding apart, silently forming chains of windowless rooms. Canvas stripes unfurl around them, uncoiled ropes snapping tightly and platforms assembling themselves amongst carefully draped silvery curtains. 

(The company assumes there is a crew that accomplishes this feat while they unpack their trunks, though some aspects of the transition are clearly automated. This was once the case, but now there is no crew at all, no unseen stagehands moving small pieces of scenery to their proper places. They are no longer necessary.) 

The tents sit quietly in the dark, as the circus will not be open to the public until the following evening. 

While most of the performers are spending the night in the city visiting old friends or favorite bars, Adrien Agreste sits alone in his backstage suite. 

His rooms are modest in comparison to others hidden behind the circus tents, but they are filled with books and well-worn furniture. Mismatched candles burn merrily on most available surfaces, illuminating sleeping doves in their cages hanging among sweeping curtains and richly colored tapestries. It is a cozy sanctuary, comfortable and quiet. 

The knock on the door comes as a surprise to him. 

“Is this how you plan to spend your entire night?” Tikki asks, glancing at the book in Adrien’s hand. 

Adrien looks up from the worn paper pages, a smile playing on his lips, “I take it you have come to suggest an alternative?” The contortionist does not visit solely for the sake of visiting. 

“I have a social engagement,” Tikki explains. “I thought you might like to join me. You spend too much time by yourself,” 

He attempts to protest, but Tikki is insistent, taking out a spotless white shirt, neatly ironed pants, and his finest fitted frock coat. It is one of the few with any color, bright emerald silk embellished with pale gold. 

“Where are we going?” Adrien asks, but Tikki refuses to say. It is about an hour too late for their destination to be the theatre or the ballet. 

Adrien laughs when they arrive at _la Maison de Bourgeois._

“You could have told me,” he says to Tikki. 

“Then it would not have been a surprise,” Tikki responds with a smile. 

Adrien has attended only a single function at _la Maison de Bourgeois,_ and that was more of a pre-circus opening reception than a proper Midnight Dinner. But despite visiting the house on only a handful of occasions between his audition and opening of the circus, he finds he is already acquainted with each of the guests. 

His arrival with Tikki is a surprise for the rest of them, but he is greeted warmly by Chloé and swept into the parlor with a glass of champagne in his hand before he can apologize for his unexpected presence. 

“See that they set an additional place for dinner,” Chloé says to Marinette before taking him on a cursory walk around the room to make sure he has met everyone. Adrien finds it odd that she doesn’t seem to remember that he has already met them all.

Mme. Bourgeois is gracious as always, her gown a warm copper of autumn leaves glowing in warm candlelight. The Césaire sisters and Monsieur Lahiffe have apparently already been making light that the three of them have all worn various shades of green– an unplanned detail– and Adrien’s jacket is taken as proof that it must simply be in fashion. 

There is some mention of another guest that may or may not be attending, but Adrien does not catch his name. 

He feels slightly out of place in this gathering of people who have known each other for so long. However, Tikki makes a point of including him in every conversation, and M. Lahiffe pays such attention to him every word when he does speak that Etta begins to tease him about it. 

While Adrien knows M. Lahiffe quite well, having met with him several times and exchanged dozens of letters, he does an impressive job of pretending they are simply acquaintances.

“You should have been an actor,” Adrien whispers to him when he is certain no one will overhear. 

“I know,” he says, sounding rather forlorn, “Such a shame that I missed my true calling,” 

Adrien has never spoken with either of the Césaire sisters at much length– Etta is more talkative than Ella– and tonight he learns in greater detail the touches that they have put on the circus. While Mme. Bourgeois costumes and M. Lahiffe’s feats of engineering are obvious, the mark of the Césaire sisters is more subtle, though it is spread throughout every aspect of the circus.

The scents, the music, the quality of the light. Even the weight of the silky curtains at the entrance– they have arranged every element of the circus to appear effortless. 

“We like to hit all the senses,” Etta says. 

Ella tilts her head, “Some more than others, though,” 

“True,” her sister agrees, “Scent is often greatly underestimated when it can be very evocative; if used properly.” 

“They are brilliant with atmosphere,” Chloé remarks to Adrien as she joins the conversation, gown swirling around her like melted gold. “Both of them, absolutely brilliant.”

Etta smiles at the praise, “The trick is to make it seem as though none of it is purposeful or forced. To make the artificial feel natural.” 

“To tie all the elements together,” Ella finishes for her. 

It seems to Adrien that they provide a similar service within the present company. He doubts that these dinners and gatherings would have continued so long after the circus began without the Césaire sisters’ infectious and bubbling laughter. They ask the perfect questions to keep the conversation flowing, warding off any awkward lulls. 

And Monsieur Lahiffe provides an ideal contrast, serious and attentive, keeping the dynamic of the group in balance. 

It is no wonder to Adrien that this group successfully created such an endeavor with such a wonderful balance of people. 

A movement in the hall catches Adrien’s eye, and while anyone else might have credited a number of candles or mirrors for the reflection, he knows the cause immediately. 

He steps out into the hall unnoticed, slipping out of sight into the shadowed library across from the parlor. It is lit only by a panel of warm-toned stained glass with gold lining shaped into a glowing sunset across one wall, sending a warm hue cascading over the shelves and letting the rest of the room fall into shadow.

“Can I not have one evening to enjoy myself without you following me?” Adrien hisses into the darkness. 

“I do not think social engagements of this sort are a proper use of your time,” his father replies, the sunset light catching part of his face and the front of his shirt in a distorted column of reds and oranges. 

“Father, you cannot dictate how I spend every moment of my life.” 

Gabriel frowns, “You are losing your focus,” 

“I cannot lose my focus,” Adrien says. “Between the new tents and embellishments, I actively control a large portion of the circus. Which is closed at the moment, if you hadn’t noticed. And the better I know these people, the better I can manipulate what they’re already done. They created the circus, after all,” 

“I suppose this is a valid point,” his father says, though he is still frowning, “But you’d do well to remember that you have no reason to trust anyone in the room,” 

“Leave me alone, Father,” Adrien says, sighing. 

“Monsieur Agreste?” a voice says behind him and he quickly turns on his heels, surprised to find Chloé’s assistant standing in the doorway, watching him with a tilted head. “Dinner is about to begin if you would like to join the rest of the guests in the dining room.” 

“My apologies,” Adrien says, his eyes darting back to the shadows, though his father has vanished. “I was distracted by the size of the library. I didn’t think anyone would notice I was missing,” 

“I am certain they would,” Marinette says with sparkling eyes, “Though I have been distracted by the library, myself, many times.” 

The charming smile that accompanies the statement catches Adrien off guard, as he has rarely seen anything but varying degrees of reserved attentiveness or occasional nervousness on her face. 

“Thank you for coming to fetch me,” he says quietly, hoping that dinner guests talking to themselves while supposedly pursuing books without the aid of proper lighting is not an unusual occurrence at _la Maison de Bourgeois._

“They likely suspect you vanished into thin air,” Marinette responds as they walk through the hall, one corner of her lip quirking up. “I thought perhaps that was not the case,” 

She holds the door open for him as she escorts him to the dining room, where Adrien is seated between Chloé and Tikki. 

“This is preferable to spending the evening alone, is it not?” Tikki asks, smiling when Adrien agrees. 

As the courses progress, when he is not distracted by the astounding quality of the food, Adrien makes a game of deciphering the relationships between the guests; reading the way they interact, gathering the emotions hidden beneath the laughter and conversations, catching the places where glances linger. 

Chloé’s glances at her beautiful assistant become more and more obvious with each glass of wine, and Adrien suspects that Mademoiselle Dupain-Cheng is well aware of it, though Marinette remains a quiet presence at the edge of the room. 

It takes him three courses to determine which of the Césaire sisters M. Lahiffe favors, but by the time the artfully arranged plates of what appears to chicken breasts spiced thyme and lemon, he is certain, although he is not sure if Etta herself knows.

Mme. Bourgeois is called “Tante” by the entire company, though she feels more like a matriarch than merely an aunt. When addresses her as “Madame,” everyone turns to look at him in surprise. 

“So proper for a circus boy,” Mme. Bourgeois says with a gleam in her eyes. “Goodness, we’ll have to loosen up your jackets if we intend to keep you as dinner company,” 

“I expect the loosening of my clothing would take place after the dinner,” Adrien says, hiding a smirk behind his glass of wine, earning a chorus of laughter. 

“We shall be keeping Monsieur Agreste regardless of the state of his clothing,” Chloé says. “Make a note of that, Mlle. Dupain-Cheng,” she adds, waving a hand at Marinette. 

“Monsieur Agreste’s state of dress is duly noted, Mademoiselle,” Marinette replies, and laughter bubbles over the table again. 

Marinette catches Adrien’s glance with a hint of the smile from earlier before she turns away, fading into the background again almost as easily as his father vanishes into the shadows. 

The next course arrives and Adrien returns to listening and observing, in between trying to figure out if the meat disguised in feather-light pastry and delicate wine sauce is actually lamb or something more exotic. 

There is something about Ella’s behavior that Adrien finds bothersome. There is something almost haunted in her expression that comes and goes. One moment she is actively engaged in the conversation, her laugh echoing her sister’s, and the next she seems distant, staring through the dripping candles. 

It is only when the echoed laugh sounds almost like a sob for a moment that Adrien realizes Ella reminds him of his mother, days before her death. 

The dessert course halts the conversation entirely. Globes of thinly blown sugar sit on each plate and must be broken in order to access the clouds of cream within. After a cacophony of shattering sugar, it does not take long for the diners to realize that, though the sparkling rose globes appeared identical, each of them has been presented with an entirely different flavor. 

There is a great deal of sharing spoons. And while some are easily guessed as mint with peach or coconut, others remain delicious mysteries. 

Adrien’s is clearly honey, but with a blend of spices beneath the sweetness that no one is quite able to name. 

After dinner, the conversation continues over coffee and brandy in the parlor, until an hour most of the guests deem extremely late, although Tikki points out that it is comparatively early for the circus performers. 

When they do begin to say their goodbyes, Adrien is embraced no differently than anyone else, and given several invitations to meet for tea while the circus remains in France. 

“Thank you,” he says to Tikki as they leave the townhouse, “I enjoyed that far more than I expected to,” 

“The greatest enjoyments are always the unexpected ones,” Tikki replies with a small smile on her face. 

Marinette watches from the window as the guests depart, catching a last glimpse of Adrien before he disappears into the night. 

She does a round through the parlor and dining room, and then downstairs to the kitchens to make sure everything is in order. The rest of the staff has already departed. She extinguishes the last of the lights before ascending several flights of stairs to check on Chloé. 

“Brilliant dinner tonight, don’t you think?” Chloé asks when Marinette reaches the suite that comprises the entire fifth story, each room lit by a multitude of Moroccan lanterns that cast fractured lights and shadows over the opulent furniture. 

“Indeed, Mlle,” Marinette says. 

“Nothing on the agenda for tomorrow, though, or later today, whatever time it is.” 

“There’s the meeting this afternoon regarding next season’s ballet schedule,” Marinette says with a frown.

“Oh,” Chloé mutters, “I had forgotten. Cancel that, would you?” 

“Of course,” Marinette says, taking a notebook from her pocket and marking down the request. 

“Yes, and order a dozen cases of whatever that brandy was that Christopher brought. Marvelous stuff, that,” 

Marinette nods, adding it to her notes. 

“You’re not leaving, are you?” Chloé asks, her brow furrowing. 

“No, Mlle,” Marinette says. “I had figured it was too late to be going back home,” 

“Home,” Chloé snorts, shaking her head. “This is your home as much as that flat you insist on keeping. More so, even,” 

“I shall attempt to remember that,” Marinette smiles. 

“Monsieur Agreste is a lovely young man, don’t you think?” Chloé remarks suddenly, turning to gauge her reaction to the question. 

Caught by surprise, Marinette only manages to stammer something she hopes resembles her standard impartial agreement. 

“We must invite him to dinner whenever the circus is near, so we might get to know him better,” Chloé says pointedly, waving a loose wrist at her assistant. 

“Yes, of course,” Marinette says, struggling to keep her expression impassive. “Will that be all of tonight?” 

Chloé laughs as she waves him away. 

Before she retires to her own rooms, a suite nearly three times the size of her flat, Marinette quietly returns to the library. 

She stands for some time in the spot where she found Adrien hours before, scrutinizing the familiar bookshelves and the wall of stained glass. 

She cannot guess what he might have been doing. 

And she does not notice the grey eyes staring at her from the shadows of the curtains.

* * *

The sign perched atop the gates of _Le Cirque du Miraculeux_ tonight is a large one, hung with braided ribbons that wrap around the wrought iron bars, just above the lock. The letters are tall enough to be read from far away, though people still walk up to read it.

_Closed Due to Inclement Weather_

It reads, in a fancy script surrounded by playfully painted grey clouds. People read the sign, often two or three times, and then stare incredulously at the setting sun and clear violet sky, scratching their heads. They stand around, and some wait to see if the sign will be removed and the circus opened, but there is no one in sight and eventually, the small crowd disperses to find any alternate activities for the evening. 

An hour after the crowd departs, sheets of rain begin pouring down, and wind ripples across the surface of striped tents. The sign on the gate dances in the wind, shimmering and wet. 

At the other end of the circus, at a part of the fence that looks nothing like a gate but is open nonetheless, Adrien Agreste steps out from the shadows of darkened tents and into the rain, opening his umbrella carefully, as it has a rather painful tendency of closing on his head. It is a large umbrella, with a heavily curved handle, and once Adrien manages to get it open, it provides quite good cover against the rain. Although the lower half of his wine-colored pants are still thoroughly soaked to the point of being near-black. 

He walks without notice into the city, although there are not many people to notice him in such a downpour. He passes only a handful of other pedestrians on the cobblestones streets, each hidden beneath an umbrella of their own. 

Eventually, Adrien stops at a brightly lit cafe, crowded and lively despite the weather. He adds his umbrella to the large collection gathering in stands in front of the stained glass windows. 

There are very few unoccupied tables, but the empty chair that catches Adrien’s eyes is one by the fireplace across from Luka, where he sits with a cup of tea and his nose buried deeply in a book. 

Adrien has never been entirely sure what to make of the fortune-teller. Although, he does have an innate distrust of anyone whose occupation involves telling people whatever they wish to hear. And Luka often has the same look in his eye he so often catches in Tikki’s glances– that they know more than they let on. 

Though perhaps that it is not unusual for someone in the business of telling other people what their future holds. 

“May I join you?” Adrien asks. Luka’s head snaps up, the surprise clear in his expression, but the surprise is quickly replaced by a bright smile. 

“Of course,” Luka says, marking his page before placing his book aside. “I can’t believe you ventured out into the weather; I only just missed the start of it earlier and I figured I ought to wait it out. I was meant to be meeting someone, but I doubt they’ll be coming now, considering everything,” 

“I can’t blame them,” Adrien says mildly, pulling off damp cashmere gloves. He shakes them gently, and they dry instantly. “It’s rather like walking through a river out there.” 

“Are you avoiding the inclement-weather party?” 

“I made an appearance before I escaped– I am not in the party mood this evening. Besides, I don’t like giving up an opportunity to leave the circus for a change of atmosphere, even if it means practically drowning to do so,” Adrien says, shrugging, “I don’t like being stuck in places,” 

“I like to escape once in a while, myself,” Luka says, “Did you make it rain to have a night off?” 

Adrien shakes his head, “Of course not. Though even if it were true, I think I overdid it,” 

Even as he speaks, Adrien’s rain-soaked suit is drying, the almost black color returning to a rich wine, though it is not entirely clear whether this is caused by the nearby fire burning merrily, or if it is just a subtle transformation he is performing himself.

Adrien and Luka chat about the weather and Prague and books, not purposefully avoiding the topic of the circus, but keeping a wide distance from it regardless. Remaining for the moment only two young men sitting at a table, rather than a fortune-teller and an illusionist; an opportunity they are not frequently presented with. 

The door of the cafe blows open, sending a gust of rain and wind inside that is met with yelps of annoyance from the patrons and clattering of umbrellas in their stands.

A harried-looking waitress pauses at their table and Adrien politely requests a mint tea. As the waitress departs, Adrien casts a long look around the room, scanning the crowd as though he is looking for someone but not finding anyone to focus on. 

“Is something wrong?” Luka asks with a furrowed brow. 

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Adrien says with a forced smile, “A hint of feeling that we’re being watched, but it is likely just my imagination,”

“Maybe someone has recognized you,” Luka suggests. 

Adrien shakes his head, “I doubt that,” he says as he looks at the surrounding patrons, not finding a single eye turned in their direction. “People see what they want to see, and I’m not wearing my circus glamour.” 

It is true, of course, his hair is the natural golden, no longer platinum blonde, and his eyes aren’t the near-grey most people remember about the illusionist, but instead bright green. 

“I am always amazed that no one recognizes me out of context,” Luka says, “I’ve read for a handful of people in this very room over the past few nights, and not one of them has given me as much of a second glance. Perhaps I do not look as mysterious when not surrounded by candles and velvet. Or perhaps they pay more attention to the cards than they do to me,” 

Adrien tilts his head, “Do you have your cards with you?” 

Luka nods. “Would… would you like a reading?” he asks. 

“If you do not mind,” 

“Not once have you ever asked me to read for you,” Luka states, raising an eyebrow at Adrien. 

“I am not usually in the mood to know anything about my future,” Adrien says with a shrug, “Tonight I am very slightly more curious,” 

Luka hesitates, glancing around at the people in the cafe, a large crowd of people sipping wine and arguing about art. 

“They will not even notice,” Adrien says. “I promise,” 

Luka turns his attention back to Adrien, and then he pulls a deck from his bag; not his black and white circus cards, but his original _Tarot de Marseilles_ deck, worn and faded. 

“Those are lovely,” Adrien says quietly as Luka starts to shuffle, watching the shifting blur of cards. 

“Thank you,” 

Adrien tilts his head, “But there are only seventy-seven of them,” 

Luka’s hands falter only momentarily, but a single card falls from the deck onto the table. Adrien picks it up, only briefly glancing at the two cups painted on the surface before handing it back to Luka. He replaces it in the deck and resumes shuffling, the cards falling seamlessly from one hand to the other. 

“One of them is…” Luka hesitates momentarily before continuing, “somewhere else,” 

Adrien does not question him further on the matter. 

The waitress brings Adrien’s mint tea, not even glancing at the cards before departing again. 

Luka’s brow furrows, “Did you do that?” 

“I diverted her attention, yes,” Adrien says after blowing gently on the surface of his steaming tea. It is not exactly what he means, but the invisible veil he has drawn over the table seems too difficult and complicated to explain. And the fact that the feeling they are being watched has not faded despite its presence greatly bothers him. 

Luka stops shuffling and places the deck facedown on the table. 

Adrien cuts the deck in three without waiting for Luka to instruct him, holding the edges of the cards carefully as he places each pile in a row across the table. 

“Which one?” Luka asks. 

Adrien regards the three piles of cards thoughtfully while he sips his tea. After a moment, he indicates to the center pile. Luka stacks the deck once more, keeping that section of the cards on top. 

The cards that he places on the table have no immediate clarity to them. Several cups. The two of swords. _La Papessa,_ the enigmatic Priestess. 

Luka only barely manages to contain his involuntary intake of breath as he lays _La Bateleur_ over the already placed cards, but he attempts to cover it with a cough. Adrien appears not to notice anything amiss. 

“I’m sorry,” Luka says, after staring silently at the cards for a few moments. “Sometimes it takes a while for me to translate properly.” 

“Take your time,” Adrien says with a shrug. 

Luka pushes the cards around the table, focusing on one then the other. 

“You carry many great burdens with you– a heavy heart, things you’ve lost. But you are moving toward change and discovery. There are outside influences that are propelling you forward.” 

Adrien’s expression reveals nothing. He looks at the cards and occasionally up at Luka, attentive yet guarded. 

“You’re… not fighting; that’s not really the right word for it, but there’s a conflict with something unseen; something shadowed that’s hidden from you.” 

Adrien only smiles. 

Luka places another card on the table. 

“But it will be revealed soon,” he adds. 

This catches Adrien’s attention, his head snapping up. “How soon?” 

“The cards do not make for the clearest of timelines, but it is very close. Almost immediate, I would think,” 

Luka pulls another card- the two of cups again. 

“There’s emotion,” he says. “Deep emotion that you are only on the shore of, still near the surface, just waiting to pull you under.” 

“Interesting,” Adrien remarks, though his eyes seem troubled. 

“It’s nothing that I can see clearly as either good or bad, but it is… intense,” Luka pushes the card around a bit, _Le Bateleur_ and _La Papessa_ surrounded by fire-tinged wands and watery cups. The crackle of fire next to them mingles with the rain pattering against the windows. “It almost contradicts itself,” he says after a moment, “It’s as if there is love and loss at the same time; together in this beautiful pain.” 

“Well that sounds like something to look forward to,” Adrien says drily and Luka smiles, glancing up from the cards but finding little to read in Adrien’s expression. 

“I’m sorry I cannot be more clear,” he says. “If anything comes to me later I will let you know. Sometimes I need to ponder the cards for longer before I can make any real sense of them. These are… not unclear, precisely, but they are complex, which makes for a great deal of possibilities to consider. Every card is tangled up in the other cards, relying on each other to form one complicated, confusing narrative.”

“No need for the apologies,” Adrien says with a shake of his head, “I cannot say I’m terribly surprised. And thank you, I very much appreciate the insight.” 

He changes the subject then, though the cards remain on the table and Luka does not move to put them away. They discuss less substantial matters until Adrien insists he must be getting back to the circus. 

“Oh, do wait until the rain lets up, at least,” Luka protests. 

“I have monopolized enough of your time already, and rain is only rain. I hope the someone you are waiting for will turn up,” 

“I am doubtful about that, but thank you. And thank you for keeping me company.” 

“It was my pleasure,” Adrien says with a polite smile, replacing his gloves. He navigates the crowded cafe with ease, pulling a dark-handled umbrella from the stand by the door and giving Luka a parting wave before preparing himself for the walk back to the circus in the pouring rain. 

Luka pushes the tangled path of cards on the table around once more. 

He did not lie, exactly. He finds it near impossible to lie about the cards. 

But the competition is clear, so much so that everything else is tied to it, both the past and future.

At the same time, it seems to be more of a reading for the whole circus than Adrien in particular, but the reading itself is so emotional that it overwhelms the details. Luka piles the cards and shuffles them back into the deck. _Le Bateleur_ floats the top as he shuffles, and he frowns at the cards before glancing around the cafe. While there are a few scattered berets amongst the patrons, but there is no sign of the one he is looking for. 

He shuffles until _Le Bateleur_ is buried deep within the deck and then he puts the cards away; returning to his book to wait out the rain alone. 

Outside, the rain is heavy and the street is dark and almost completely deserted, glowing windows dotting the streets. It is not as cold as Adrien had expected, despite the chilling wind. 

He cannot read tarot well himself– there are always too many possibilities, too many meanings. But once Luka pointed out specific elements, he could see the complicated emotions, the impending revelation. He is unsure what to make of it, though despite his skepticism, he hopes it means he will finally be certain who his opponent is. 

He remains distracted as he walks, pondering the cards, but he slowly realizes that he is slightly warm. At least as warm, if not warmer than he had been sitting near the fire with Luka, despite the rainwater falling around him. More than that, his clothes are still dry. His jacket, gloves, even the bottoms of his suit pants. There is not a single drop of rain on him although it continues to pour, the wind causing the rain to fall in several directions beyond the standard pattern. Drops splatter upward from pond-like puddles and blow sideways, but Adrien does not feel any of it. Even his boots are not the slightest bit damp. 

Adrien stops walking as he reaches an open square, halting next to the towering astronomical block where carved apostles are making their scheduled hourly appearance despite the weather. 

He stands still in the downpour. The rain falls so thickly around him that he can hardly see more than a few paces ahead, but he remains both warm and dry. He holds his hand out in front of him, beyond the cover of the umbrella, and regards it carefully as not a single drop falls on it. Those that come close suddenly change direction before hitting his glove, bouncing off as though he is surrounded by something invisible and impermeable. 

It is around this time that Adrien becomes certain the umbrella he is holding is not his own. 

“Excuse me, Monsieur Agreste,” a voice calls to him, lifted to carry over the pounding of the rain and down the street. It is a voice he recognizes before he even turns around to find Marinette standing behind him, completely drenched in rain, droplets cascading off her scarlet beret. In her hand, she holds a closed black umbrella identical to the one he carries. 

“I believe you have my umbrella,” she says, nearly out of breath but wearing a grin that has too much enthusiasm in it to be properly sheepish. 

Adrien stares up at her in surprise. At first, he wonders what on earth Chloé’s assistant is doing in Prague, as he has never seen her outside of London. Then comes the question of how she could possess such an umbrella. 

As he stares at her, confused, the pieces of the puzzle begin to shift together. He remembers every encounter he has ever had with the woman now standing before her in the rain, recalling the distress she had exhibited at his audition, the years of glances, and the coy comments and sly smiles in response to his attempts at flirtation. 

And the constant impression as though she is not really there, blending so well into the background that he would occasionally forget she was in the room. 

Before, he thought it was the sign of a very good assistant, never accounting how deceptive such an appearance might be. 

He suddenly feels rather stupid for not once considering the possibility that she could be his opponent. 

And then Marinette begins to laugh at his stunned expression, a buoyant giggle that harmonizes with the din of the rain. Adrien’s grin grows as he watches her, water droplets catching on her eyelashes. 

Once Marinette composes herself, she gives him a low, perfect curtsy, shooting him a blinding smile. 

Adrien hands her the umbrella, gasping as the rain seizes him the moment the handle passes from his fingers. She hands him the identical umbrella. 

“My sincere apologies,” he says, watching amusement sparkle in Marinette’s eyes. 

She tilts her head at him, a stray strand of raven hair falling into her eyes. 

He watches her for another moment, “I would very much like to speak with you, if you would care to join me for a drink,” He is already thoroughly soaked, watching as Marinette’s clothing rapidly dries and she huddles closer to him, attempting to cover both of them with the open umbrella. The wind whips his golden hair in wet strands across his face as Marinette considers him, watching as raindrops evaporate from her lashes. 

For all the years of wondering, being faced with his opponent is not what he expected. 

He had expected it to be someone he knew. Someone inside the bounds of the circus rather than the outside, but still involved. 

There are so many questions, so many things he longs to discuss despite his father’s constant nagging about not concerning himself with the opponent. He wants to know more about her, know everything– what makes her smile and laugh. 

His thoughts are interrupted by Marinette, who gives him a sweet grin, though her eyes have a rather sly glint in them. “Of course you would,” she says. “Perhaps another time.” 

She backs away from him, and Adrien struggles to pull his umbrella over his head. By the time he swings the canopy of black silk over his head, he looks up just in time to see Marinette and her umbrella vanish, leaving only drops of water falling onto the empty pavement. 

Alone in the rain, Adrien regards the space where Marinette had been standing for some time before he walks away into the night.

* * *

_The sign says The Scales, but when the patrons walk inside, they find much more than just a set of scales. Pure white and midnight black metal intertwine with the other, forming delicate braids and swirls that form a larger-than-life scale set._

_At first glance, it appears there is no roof on the tent, but in truth, the top of the tent is just inky-colored darkness, with small lights hidden within folds of the ceiling fabric, giving the appearance of the night sky._

_Spirals of raindrops and piles of gemstones are stacked on each side; one entirely black, the other white as blinding snow._

_On one side of the scales, a near acrobatic dancer swirls and spins in a flurry of black hair and white clothing. Her strapless ballgown whirls around her, diamond strands hanging off her shoulders with black dots spotted on her silky dress. A pure white diamond dots the corner of each of her eyes, oddly resembling tears. Overall, she looks like a monochromatic Ladybug, performing flips and leaps across her side of the scales._

_Many patrons comment that it seems impossible for a woman to perform such feats wearing a delicate and intricate and feminine outfit._

_Another patron responds that impossible is what Le Cirque du Miraculeux specializes in._

_On the other side of the scales is a young man dressed solely in black using a baton to fling himself around scales. A black mask surrounds his eyes, fitting the upper half of his face like a second skin. Unlike the woman on the other side of the scales, he is completely unadorned, dressed in just simple black fabric._

_The two dance around each other, always gravitating toward the other, spinning and flying in circles through the tent. The scales gently sway depending on the two performers’ movements, but never truly tip in favor of one side or the other._

_No matter how many times the girl dances and twirls on the snowy white diamonds, they never shift, and as the young man spins among spirals of raindrops, they never spin out or get anyone wet._

_The patrons watch with rapt attention, eyes shifting from one side to the other, never able to focus on one side for too long without missing some beautiful movement on the other. The young man reaches an open hand out to the young woman, watching her with hopeful eyes, and in a moment’s pause, they rush toward each other._

_Many people watching want to gasp, but cannot bring themselves to break the silence that drifts calmly through the tent._

_The two sides collide and as the girl and boy land in each other’s arms, the scales crumble in a burst of light and then the tent is empty, save for the patrons, as though there had been nothing in there at all._

* * *

The funeral is a quiet one, despite the number of mourners present. There are no sobs or flailing handkerchiefs. There is a smattering of color amongst the sea of traditional black. Even the light rain cannot push it down into the realms of despair. It rests instead in a space of thoughtful melancholy. 

Perhaps it is because it does not feel as though Ella Césaire is entirely gone, when her sister sits alive and well. One half of the pair is still breathing and vibrant. 

And at the same time, something looks strikingly wrong to everyone who lays eyes on the surviving sister. Something they can’t quite put their finger on. Something out of balance, as though a scale has become entirely lopsided when it used to be perfectly steady and even. 

An occasional tear rolls down Etta Césaire’s cheek, but she greets each mourner with a smile and thanks them for attending. She makes jokes that Ella might have quipped had she not been inside the polished-wood coffin. Alya has arrived, but neither their eldest sister nor any other family members are present, though some less familiar acquaintances that the white-haired woman and tanned young man who seldom leave Etta’s side are her mother and husband, respectively. While they are incorrect, neither Mme. Bourgeois nor Monsieur Christopher Lahiffe mind the mistake. 

There are countless roses. Red roses, white roses, pink roses. There is even a single black rose among the budding blossoms, though no one knows its origin. Chloé takes credit only for the white blooms, keeping one pinned to her bodice that she toys with distractedly throughout the service. 

When Etta speaks about her sister, her words are met with sighs and laughter, and sad smiles. 

“I do not mourn the loss of my sister because she will always be with me, in my heart,” she says in a quiet and gentle voice. Unlike many of the mourners, dressed in standard black, Etta wears a loose and flowing gown of pale blue, light pink roses tucked into the front of her braided crown. “I am, however, rather annoyed that my Ella has left me to suffer you lot alone. I do not see as well without her. I do not hear as well without her. I do not feel as well without her. I would be better off without a hand or leg than without my twin. Then at least she would be here to mock my appearance and claim to be the pretty one for a change. We have all lost our Ella, but I have lost a part of myself as well.” 

In the cemetery, there is a single performer that even some of the mourners who are not part of _Le Cirque du Miraculeux_ recognize, though the woman bedecked from head to toe in the snowiest white has added a pair of soft feather wings to her outfit. They cascade down her back and flutter gently in the breeze while she remains as still as stone. Many of the attendants seem surprised by her presence but they take their cues from Etta, who is delighted at the sight of the living angel standing over her sister’s grave. 

It was the Césaire sisters, after all, who originated the tradition of such statues within the circus. Performers standing stock-still with elaborate costumes and carefully styled makeup on platforms set up in precarious spaces between various tents. If watched for hours, they sometimes change position entirely, but the motion will be agonizingly slow, to the point that many observers insist they are cleverly crafted automatons and not proper people. 

The circus contains several of these performers; The star-speckled Empress of the Night. The coal-dark Midnight Pirate. The one that now watches over Etta Césaire is most often referred to as the Snow Queen, though she has not been officially named. 

There is the softest of sobbing as the coffin is lowered into the ground, but it is difficult to pinpoint who it is coming from, or if it is just a collective sound of mingled sighs and wind and shifting feet. 

The rain increases and umbrellas sprout like flowers around the grave. The damp dirt quickly turns to mud and the remainder of the burial is hastened to accommodate the weather. 

The ceremony fades out rather than ending properly, the mourners shifting from neat rows to mingling crowded without a distinct moment to mark the change. Many linger to pass additional condolences to Etta, though some move off to seek shelter from the rain. 

Luka and Tikki stand side-by-side some distance from Ella’s grave, sharing a large grey umbrella that Luka holds in a black-gloved hand. Tikki insists she does not mind the rain, but Luka shelters her anyway, grateful for the company. 

“How did she die?” Tikki asks. It is a question that many others have asked in hushed whispers throughout the afternoon and has been met with varying answers, though none of them satisfying. Those who know details do not insert themselves into the conversation. 

“I was told it was an accident,” Luka says quietly, voice barely more than a whisper. “She was hit by a train,” 

Tikki nods thoughtfully, pulling a silver lighter from the pocket of her coat. Though she does not smoke, she often carries the lighter with her, watching the flames dance. 

“And how did she really die?” 

Luka’s head snaps up, “What do you mean?” he asks, looking around to see if anyone is close enough to overhear their conversation, though most of the mourners have wandered off into the rain. Only a handful remain, including Adrien Agreste standing with Emmy Lahiffe clinging to the bottom of his jacket, the young girl wearing a frown that seems more angry than truly sad. 

Etta and Christopher stand next to Ella’s grave, the angel hovering over them closely enough to place a hand on their shoulders. 

“You have seen things that defy belief, have you not?” Tikki asks. 

Luka nods carefully. 

“Do you think perhaps those things would be more difficult to live with if you were not a part of these impossible things, yourself? Perhaps to the point of going mad? The mind is a sensitive and delicate thing.” 

“You cannot possibly be–” Luka begins, but Tikki quickly cuts him off. 

“Perhaps it is not,” Tikki says with a delicate shrug, “But, I believe it is a possibility at the very least.” She flicks the lighter, holding it outside the umbrella, though the flame still catches easily. 

“It could have been an accident,” Luka argues. 

Tikki tilts her head at him, “Young man, have you had _any_ accidents recently? A broken bone, perhaps? A burn from all those candles you sit by every night?” 

“…No,” Luka says slowly. 

“Have you taken ill? Even the slightest of sniffles?” 

“No,” Luka repeats, racking his brain for the last time he felt ill, and he can only come up with a head cold he had a decade ago, the winter he met Marinette. 

Tikki nods as though she expected the answer, one corner of her lip tilting up, “I do not believe any of us have been; not since the circus started. And no one has died until now. No has been born, either– not since the Lahiffe twins. Though it doesn’t seem to be from lack of trying, giving the way some of the acrobats carry on.” 

“I…” Luka starts but cannot finish. It is too much for him to wrap his mind around, and he is not even sure he wants to be able to understand it all. 

“We are fish in a bowl, dear boy,” Tikki tells him, a cigarette she never lights hanging precariously from her scarlet-stained lips. “Very carefully monitored fish, watched from all angles. If one of us floats to the top, it would be foolish to believe it accidental. And if it was an accident, I worry that the watchers are not watching as carefully as they should be.” 

Luka stays silent. He wishes Marinette had accompanied Chloé, though he doubts she would answer any of his questions, if she agreed to speak with him at all. Every reading he has done privately on the matter has been greatly complicated, but there is always the presence of strong emotion on her part. He knows she cares about the circus; that much he is sure of. 

“Have you ever read your cards for someone who could not understand what they were dealing with? No matter how clear it was to you from only a short conversation and pictures on paper?” Tikki asks. 

“Yes,” Luka replies. He has seen it thousands of times, the patrons who could not see things for what they were. Who had turned a blind eye to the betrayals and heartbreak lying in their futures, and so stubborn no matter how gently he tried to explain. Always so insistent they could change whatever fate had planned for them.

“It is difficult to see a situation for what it is when you are in the midst of it,” Tikki explains, “It is too familiar. Too comfortable.” 

The contortionist pauses, curls of smoke from the lighter curling up between raindrops as they wind up around her head and into the damp air. 

“Perhaps Mlle. Ella Césaire had been close enough to the edge that she could see it differently.” she finishes calmly, extinguishing the lighter. 

Luka frowns, looking back toward Ella’s grave. Etta and Christopher have turned and are walking away slowly, his arm around her bare shoulders. 

“Have you ever been in love, Tikki?” Luka asks. 

Tikki freezes, her shoulders stiffening and blue eyes turning icy. For a moment, Luka thinks his question will go unanswered, but then she replies. 

“I have been with some people for only hours, and some for years upon years. I have loved princes and peasants and all those in between. Everyone loves differently, you see. And I believe they each loved me, though each in different ways.” 

This is a typical Tikki response, one that does not truly answer the question. Luka does not bother to extract a direct answer from her. 

“It will come apart, you know,” Tikki says after a while. Luka does not need to ask to know what she means. “The cracks are beginning to show. Sooner or later, it is bound to break.” she pauses to look up at the sky, stepping out from under the umbrella and into the embrace of pouring rain. “Are you still tempering?” 

“Yes,” Luka says carefully, “But I do not think it is helping.” 

“It is often difficult to discern the effectiveness of such things, you know. Your perspective is from the inside, after all. The smallest charms can be the most effective.” 

“It does not seem to be very effective,” Luka says stubbornly. 

“Perhaps,” Tikki says in a slow drawl, “it is controlling the chaos within more than the chaos outside.”

Luka does not reply. Tikki shrugs and does not speak again. 

After a moment, they turn to leave together without further discussion. 

The snow-white angel alone remains, hovering over Ella Césaire’s new grave, holding a single black rose in one hand. She does not move, does not bat a single eyelash. Her powdered face remains frozen in sorrow. 

The downpour of rain pulls down feathers and pins them to the mud below.

* * *

The Midnight Dinner is rather subdued tonight, despite the number of guests. The circus is preparing for another stretch near Paris, having recently departed from Berlin, so there are a handful of performers present. Monsieur Christopher Lahiffe is visiting from London as well. 

Adrien Agreste spends much of the meal talking to Mme. Bourgeois, who is seated to his left, draped in lapis-blue silk. 

The suit Adrien wears is a Bourgeois design, one that was created for him to perform in, but deemed too attention-catching. The suit is made entirely of glowing silver fabric, attracting the light everywhere, an effect that diverted and distracted Adrien's illusions. However, the effect was so lovely Adrien could not bear to give it up, and instead kept it for formal wear. 

“It seems someone cannot keep her eyes off you, dear,” Mme. Bourgeois remarks, subtly tilting her wine glass in the direction of the door, where Marinette is standing quietly to the side, dressed in a delicate gown of blush-pink lace and chiffon, hands clasped behind her back. 

“Perhaps she is simply admiring your handiwork. Mlle. Dupain-Cheng does love fashion, I’m sure you know,” Adrien says, attempting to tear his eyes away from the assistant. 

“That is true, but I would wager she’s far more interested in you than whatever you are wearing.” 

Adrien only laughs, but he knows that Mme. Bourgeois is correct, as he has felt Marinette’s gaze on him all evening, and he is finding her increasingly difficult to ignore. 

Her attention only wavers from Adrien once, when Chloé knocks over a heavy crystal wine glass that narrowly avoids knocking into a candelabra, spilling deep red wine over the gold brocade of the tablecloth. 

However, before Marinette can react, Adrien leaps to his feet from across the table, righting the glass without touching it, a detail only Chloé has the right perspective to notice. When he takes his hand away, the glass is filled again, the tablecloth spotless. 

“Clumsy,” Chloé mutters to herself, “So clumsy,” She looks at Adrien warily before turning away to pick up her conversation with Christopher. 

“You could have been a ballet dancer,” Mme. Bourgeois says to Adrien, “You are quite good on your feet,” 

Adrien just smiles, giving a small shrug. 

For the remainder of the dinner, Adrien keeps a watchful eye on Chloé. She spends most of her time discussing some sort of house renovation with M. Lahiffe, occasionally repeating herself, though Christopher is kind enough to pretend not to notice. Chloé does not touch her wine glass again, and it is still full when it is cleared at the end of the course. 

After dinner, Adrien is the last to leave. During the mass-departure, he misplaces his scarf and refuses to let anyone wait for him while he searches for it, waving them off into the night. 

Though servants offer to help, it proves rather difficult, attempting to locate a length of blue fabric in the complete chaos of _la Maison de Bourgeois._ Though they trace his steps through the library and dining room, it is nowhere to be found. 

Eventually, the search is abandoned and servants sent to bed, while Adrien returns to the main foyer, where Marinette is standing by the door with his scarf folded casually over her arm. “Are you looking for this, Monsieur Agreste? It seems the scarf had not truly been misplaced at all. Just a simple glamor placed over it. I don’t suppose that was your doing?” 

Adrien shrugs, a smirk playing on his lips. Marinette moves to place the scarf around his neck, but the fabric disintegrates between her fingers, crumbling into rose petals. 

When she looks up at him again, the scarf is carefully placed over his shoulders. 

“Well,” Marinette says calmly, “Since it seems you have now found your scarf, I suppose you will be heading back to the circus. Goodnight, Monsieur Agreste,” 

She moves to open the front door, but Adrien reaches out to gently grasp her wrist. “Actually, I was hoping I could trouble you for that drink we did not have in Prague,” he says, his voice slightly rough with nerves. 

Marinette cocks her head at him, the intensity of her studying gaze even stronger than it had been during dinner. Adrien tilts his head back at her, giving her his best begging eyes. He can practically feel the moment Marinette gives in, and she nods her consent. 

He smiles and turns, walking further inside the house, only looking back once to assure himself that Marinette was following. 

Inside, the dining room has been cleared out, but the dripping candles still burn in the candelabras. Just as Adrien has planned and hoped, two glasses of champagne sit on the table.

“Where has Chloé gone off to?” Adrien asks, picking up one of the glasses to offer to Marinette. 

She accepts it with a grateful smile, “She has surely gone up to the fifth floor,” Marinette says. “She had the former servants’ quarters renovated to keep as her private rooms– she enjoys the view. She will not come back until morning. The rest of our staff has likely departed, so we have the majority of the house to ourselves.” 

“Do you often entertain your guests after hers have gone?” Adrien asks, his voice teasing. 

Marinette raises an eyebrow, “Well, no. And especially not ones that seem to invite themselves in,” 

Adrien watches her while she sips her wine. Something about her appearance bothers him, although he cannot identify what it is. 

“Did Chloé really insist that all the fires in the circus be white to match the color scheme?” he asks after a moment. 

“She did,” Marinette says with a snort, “She told me to contact a chemist or something of the sort. I opted to take care of the issue myself.” She runs her fingers over the candles on the table and the flames shift from a warm orange to cool white, tinged with silvery blue in the center. She runs her fingers back in the other direction, and the flames return to normal. 

“What do you call it?” Marinette asks.

Adrien does not need to ask what she is referring to. 

“Manipulation. I called it magic when I was younger,” Adrien says with a sardonic smile, “And it took me quite a while to break that habit, though my father never really cared for that term. He would call it enchanting, or forcibly manipulating the universe if he was feeling rather cynical and not in the mood for brevity.”

“Enchanting?” Marinette repeats, tilting her head to the side. “I’ve never thought of it like that before.” 

Adrien’s smiles, shaking his head, “Nonsense. That’s exactly what you do. You enchant people. You’re good at it, too. You have so many people in love with you; Luka, you’ve even enchanted Chloé to some degree. And there must be others, I’m sure,” 

Marinette does not attempt to dispute this point. Instead, she says, “How do you know about Luka?” 

“The company of the circus is fairly large, but they all talk about each other,” Adrien says with a shrug, “He seems utterly devoted to someone whom none of us have ever met. I noticed immediately that he pays particular attention to me– I even wondered at one point if he might be my opponent. But after you appeared in Prague when he was waiting for someone, it was rather easy to figure out the rest. I do not believe anyone else knows. The Lahiffe twins have a theory that he is in love with the dream or ghost of someone, and not an actual person.” 

Marinette smiles, “The Lahiffe twins sound quite clever. If I am _enchanting,_ as you say, it is not always intentional. It was helpful in securing the position with Chloé, as I only had a single reference and very little experience in the real world.” she pauses, before adding almost as an afterthought, “Though it does not seem to be working as effectively on you,” 

Adrien puts down his glass, not quite certain what to make of her. The shifting light from the candles enhances the indistinct quality of her face, so he looks away before he responds, turning his attention to the contents of a side table. 

“My father used to do something similar,” he says carefully, “That pulling, charming effect. After my mother passed, he used it on everyone he thought would help him. I watched him manipulate and _enchant_ so many women. He never cared for any of them, just using them until he tossed them away and left them broken. When I was old enough to understand, I promised myself I would not suffer like that for anyone. It will take a great deal more than those pretty bluebell eyes of yours to seduce me.” 

When Adrien looks back, Marinette’s smile has disappeared. 

“I am sorry you lost your mother,” she says. 

“It was a long time ago,” Adrien says, almost surprised by such genuine sympathy from her, “But thank you,” 

“Do you remember much about her?” she asks. 

“I remember impressions more than actualities. I remember her smile. But mostly I only remember what she was like after she got, just lying in bed and unable to move or talk much.” 

“I do not remember my parents,” Marinette says softly, fiddling with a piece of lace between her fingers. “I have no memories before the orphanage that I was plucked out of because I met some unspecified criteria set forth by my instructor. I was made to read a deal, I traveled and studied and was generally groomed to play some sort of game. I’ve been doing so, along with accounting and bookkeeping and whatever else Chloé requests of me, for almost all of my life.” 

“Why are you being so honest with me?” Adrien asks. 

“Because it is truly refreshing to be completely honest with someone for a change,” Marinette says with a melancholy smile, “And I suspect you would know if I lied to you. I would hope you would do the same with me,” 

Adrien considers this a moment before he nods. 

“You remind me a bit of my father,” he says. 

Marinette wrinkles her nose, “From what I’ve heard about him, I’m not sure I’m fond of that comparison. How so?” 

“It’s the way you manipulate perception,” Adrien explains, “I was never particularly good at that, myself. I’m much better with tangible things. You don’t have to do that with me, by the way,” he adds, finally realizing what is disconcerting about her appearance. 

“Do what?” Marinette says, raising an eyebrow.

“Look like that. It’s very good, but I can tell it isn’t entirely genuine. It must be terribly irritating to keep it up constantly.” he says. 

Marinette frowns but then, very slowly, her face begins to change. Her previously sharp cheekbones and jawline soften, giving a much more girly and youthful appearance. Her upper lip is no longer quite as full. Her eyes are still as striking blue as ever, but her eyes are now wider, save for the corners, which show some of her Chinese heritage. 

Her false face has been beautiful, of course, but consciously so. As though she was too aware of her own attractiveness, wielding it like a weapon. 

And there was something else, a hollowness that was likely the result of an illusion, an impression that she was not entirely present in the room. With that manipulation, she seems almost as insubstantial as his father.

But now, there is a different person standing near him, much more present, as if a barrier has been removed between them. She feels closer, though the distance between them has not changed at all, and her face is just as beautiful. 

Adrien can feel the heat rising up in his neck and manages to control it enough that the flush is not noticeable in the candlelight. 

And then, he realizes why there is something familiar in her true face, as well. 

“I’ve seen you like this before,” he realizes, placing his true countenance in the location of his memory. “You’ve watched my performances like that.” 

Marinette raises an eyebrow, a gentle smile on her face, “Do you remember all your audiences?” 

“No,” Adrien says honestly, “Just the beautiful ones,” 

She shakes her head at him, “You must not look at me like that,” she says, her voice hoarse. 

“And what way might that be?” he asks, a smirk playing on his lips. 

“As though you cannot decide whether you want to walk away from me or if you want to kiss me,” Marinette says.

Adrien smiles, leaning back against the dining room table. “I am not afraid of you.”

They stare at each other in silence for a while, the candles flickering around them. 

“It seems a great deal of effort for a rather sudden difference,” Adrien says finally. 

She shrugs, “It has its advantages.” 

“I think you look better without it,” Adrien says with a smile. Marinette looks so surprised that he adds, “I said I would be honest, didn’t I?” 

Marinette shakes her head, “You flatter me, Monsieur Agreste,” she says before adding, “How many times have you been to this house?” 

“At least a dozen,” 

“And yet,” Marinette says with a sly smile, “You have never had a tour,” 

“I have never been offered one,” he replies. 

Marinette shrugs, “Chloé does not believe in them. She prefers to let the house remain a mystery. If the guests do not know where the boundaries are, it gives the impression that the house goes on forever. It used to be two different buildings, so it can be somewhat disorienting,” 

“I wasn’t aware of that,” Adrien says. 

“Two adjoining twin houses– one a mirror of the other. She bought both of them and had them renovated into a single-dwelling, with a large number of enhancements. There are many eccentric and themed rooms, some of them tacky, but many of them are rather lovely. I do not believe we would have time for a full tour, but I could show you some of my favorite rooms, if you’d like,” 

“I would,” Adrien says, placing his empty wine glass on the table next to Marinette’s, “Do you often give forbidden tours of your employer’s house?” 

“Only once,” Marinette says with a small laugh, “And that’s because Monsieur Lahiffe was very persistent,”

From the dining room, they cross under the shadow of the elephant-headed statue in the front foyer, passing into the library and stopping at the stained-glass sunset that stretches the height of one wall. 

“This is the game room,” Marinette says, pushing the glass and letting it swing open into the next room. 

Adrien raises an eyebrow at the near secret room, staring into the room, “How appropriate,” 

Gaming is more of a theme than a function for the room. The floor is set up like a giant chessboard, several life-size queen and king pieces scattered in the corners. There are several chess games with missing pieces, set up in more dramatic stories than actual chess. Pieces without boards of their own are lined up on windowsills and bookshelves. Dartboards without any darts hang alongside backgammon boards pinned to the wall suspended in mid-play. 

The billiard table in the center is covered in blood-red felt. 

A selection of ornate weaponry lines one wall, arranged in pairs. Sabres and pistols and fencing foils, each twinned another, looking prepared for dozens of potential duels. 

“Chloé has a fondness for antique armament,” Marinette explains as Adrien regards them. “There are pieces in other rooms, but this is the majority of her collection,” 

She watches him closely as he walks around the room. He appears to be attempting not to smile as he looks over the gaming elements artfully arranged around them.

“You smile as though you have a secret,” she says, leaning against a wall. 

“I have a lot of secrets,” Adrien explains, glancing at her over his shoulder before turning back to the wall, “When did you know I was your opponent?” 

“I did not know until your audition. You were a mystery for years before that. And I’m certain you noticed you caught me by surprise,” She pauses before adding, “I cannot say it has truly been an advantage. How have you known?” 

Adrien shakes his head, “I knew in the rain in Prague, and you know perfectly well that was when I knew,” he says, “You could have let me go with an umbrella to puzzle over, but instead, you chased me down. Why?” 

“I wanted it back,” Marinette answers with a smile, “I’m quite fond of that umbrella. And I had grown weary of hiding this from you,” 

“I once suspected anyone and everyone,” Adrien says, “Though I did think it was more likely someone truly in the circus. But I should have known it was you,” 

Marinette raises an eyebrow, “And why is that?” 

“Because you pretend to be less than you are,” he explains, “That much is as clear as day. I will admit, though, I never thought to charm my umbrella,” 

“I visited London often,” Marinette explains, “As soon as I learned to charm objects, it was the first thing I did.” 

She removes her ivory silk shawl and tosses it over one of the leather chairs in the corner. Meanwhile, Adrien takes a deck of playing cards off of a shelf, unsure if she would be willing to humor him but too curious not to try.

“Do you want to play cards?” Marinette asks, raising an eyebrow. 

Adrien tilts his head, “Not exactly,” he answers as he shuffles the cards. When he is satisfied, he places the deck on the billiard table. 

Marinette, immediately picking up on what he is suggesting, flips over a card; the queen of spades. She taps the surface and the queen of spades becomes the queen of hearts. She lifts her hand, withdrawing it from the table and stepping back, welcoming him to make the next move. 

Smiling, he unwinds the scarf from his shoulders and drapes it over her discarded shawl. Then, he stands with his hands clasped behind his back. 

The queen of hearts flips up, balancing on its edge. It stands there for a moment before slowly and deliberately ripping in half. The pieces stay standing, separate pausing before they fall, the patterned back facing up. 

Mimicking Marinette’s gesture, Adrien taps the card and it snaps back together. He pulls his hand back and the card flips itself over. The king of diamonds. 

Then, the entire deck hovers in the air for a moment before collapsing on the table, cards scattering out over the red-felt table. 

“You are better than I am at physical manipulation,” Marinette says. 

“I have an advantage,” Adrien admits, “What my father calls a natural talent. I find it harder not to influence my surroundings. I was constantly breaking things as a child when I was upset,” 

“How much impact can you have on living things?” Marinette asks. 

He shrugs, “It depends on the thing in question. Objects are easier for me. It took me years to master anything animate. And I work much better with my own birds than I could with any bird taken off the street.” 

“What could you do with me?” 

Adrien ponders this for a minute, “I might be able to change your hair, perhaps your voice. But nothing more than that without your full consent and awareness, and true consent is more difficult to give than you might think. I couldn’t repair any injury. I rarely have much more than a temporary, superficial impact. It is easier with people I’m very familiar with, though it is never particularly easy.” 

Marinette nods, “What about yourself?” 

In response, Adrien goes to the wall and removes a thin, Ottoman dagger with a jade and golden hilt from where it hangs with its partner. Holding it in his right hand, he places his left palm down on the billiard, over the scattered cards. Without hesitating, he plunges the blade into the back of his hand, piercing through skin and cards and into the felt underneath. 

Marinette flinches and slaps a hand over her mouth, but says nothing. 

Adrien pries the dagger up, her hand and the two of spades, still stuck on the blade. Blood is slowly beginning to drip down his hand. He holds out his hand and turns it slowly, presenting it with a certain amount of showmanship so Marinette can see there is no illusion involved. 

With his dominant hand, he removes the dagger, the blood-stained playing card flutters to the table. Then the droplets of blood begin rolling backward, seeping into the gash in his palm, which then sinks and disappears until it is nothing more than a sharp red line on his skin, and then nothing at all. 

He taps the card and the blood disappears, the rip left by the blade no longer visible. The card is now the two of hearts. 

Marinette picks up the card and runs her fingers over the mended surface. Then with a subtle twist of her hand, the card vanishes. She leaves it safely tucked within the lace and chiffon folds of her dress. 

Though her face is now a few shades paler than it was minutes before and her hands are clenched tightly in fists, her voice remains steady and calm. “I am relieved we were not challenged to a physical fight,” she says, “I think you would likely have a large advantage,” 

“My father used to slice open the tips of my fingers until I could heal all ten at once,” Adrien says, returning the dagger– now devoid of blood– to its place on the wall. “So much of it is being able to feel how everything is supposed to fit together, and I have not been able to do it with anyone else,” 

“I think your lessons were a great deal less academic than mine,” Marinette utters faintly. 

Adrien snorts, “I would have preferred more reading,” 

“I think it rather strange that we were prepared in such drastically different ways for the same challenge,” Marinette says. She looks at Adrien’s hand again, though now there is clearly nothing wrong, no sign that it had been stabbed mere moments ago. 

“I suspect that is part of the point,” he replies, “Two completely different schools of thought pitted against each other, working within the same environment,” 

Marinette sighs deeply, “I must confess, I don’t fully understand the point of it all, even after all this time.” 

“Nor do I,” Adrien admits, “I suspect calling it a duel or challenge would not be completely accurate. I’ve to think of it more as a dual exhibition. Now, what else do I get to see on my tour?” 

“Would you like to see something still in progress?” Marinette asks. Knowing that he thinks of the circus as an exhibition comes as a pleasant surprise, as she had stopped considering it a battle years ago. 

Adrien nods slowly, “I would. Especially if it is the project that Monsieur Lahiffe was talking about during dinner,” 

“It is,” 

Marinette escorts him out of the game room through another door, passing briefly through the hall and into the expansive ballroom at the back of the house, where moonlight filters in from the windows lining the back wall. 

Outside, in the space the garden formerly occupied beyond the terrace, the area has been excavated to sit a level deeper, sunk into the earth. At the moment, it is mostly an arrangement of packed soil and stacks of marble sheets forming rudimentary walls. 

Adrien carefully descends the stone steps with Marinette following closely behind. Once at the bottom, the walls create something of a maze, leaving only a small portion of the garden visible at once. 

“I thought it might be beneficial for Chloé to have a project to occupy herself with,” Marinette explains, “She so rarely leaves the house these days, and renovating the gardens seemed like a good place to start. Would you like to see what it will look like when it’s done?” 

Adrien nods, “I would. Do you have the plans here?” 

In response, Marinette’s lips tilt up and she lifts one hand, gesturing around them. 

What had been little more than stacks of rough marble moments before is now set and carved into ornate arches and pathways, covered in crawling ivy and speckled in tiny, bright lanterns. Instead of grass beneath their feet, there is moss, dotted with small white flowers. Cherry blossoms and lilies hang from curving trellises above them, the night sky visible through the spaces between blossoms. 

Adrien puts his hand to his lips to muffle his gasps. The entire scene, from the scent of the flowers to the warmth radiating from the lanterns, is astonishing. He can hear a fountain bubbling nearby and turns down the moss-covered path to find it. 

Marinette follows him as he explores, taking turn after turn through the twisting pathways. 

The fountain in the center cascades down a carved marble wall, flowing into a perfectly round pond full of koi. Their scales glow in the moonlight, bright splashes of white and orange in the dark water. 

He puts his hand out, letting the water from the fountain rush over his fingers as he presses against the cold stone below. 

“You’re doing this in my mind, aren’t you?” he asks when he hears Marinette behind him. 

He can see her nod in the reflection of moonlit water, “And you’re letting me,” 

“I could probably stop it, you know,” Adrien says, turning around to face her. She leans against one of the stone archways, watching him with a small smile on her face. 

“Well, I’m certain you could. If you resisted at all, it would not work as well, and this can be blocked almost entirely. And, of course, proximity is key for the immersion,” 

Adrien furrows his eyebrows, “You cannot do this with the circus,” 

Marinette shrugs. “There is too much distance most times, unfortunately,” she explains, “It is one of my specialties, yet there is little opportunity for me to use it. And I am not adept at creating illusions like these, especially to be viewed by more than one person at a time,” 

“It’s amazing,” Adrien says, unable to tear his eyes away from the koi swimming at his feet, “I could never manage something so intricate, even though they call me the illusionist. Often, I think you ought to be working at the circus rather than me,” 

“No,” Marinette shakes her head, “I don’t think I would suit that title,” 

“Of course not,” Adrien says with a smirk, shaking his head, “You’d be much better suited to ‘The Beautiful Woman Who Can Manipulate the Universe with Her Mind’ but I’m afraid that wouldn’t fit on the sign,” 

Marinette’s laugh is light and girlish, and Adrien turns away to hide his smile and blush, keeping his attention on the swirling water. 

“There is no use for one of my specialties, either,” he says, “I am rather good at manipulating fabric– not actually sewing, like you– but it seems unnecessary given what Mme. Bourgeois can do.” 

“I think she’s a witch,” Marinette says with a smile, “And I mean that in the most complimentary way,” 

“I’m sure she would take that as a compliment, indeed,” Adrien says, “Are you seeing all this as well, exactly as I see it?”

Marinette gives a haphazard shrug, “More or less. The nuances are richer and better the closer I am to the viewer.” 

Adrien circles to the opposite side of the pond, nearer to where she stands. He examines the carvings on the stone and vines twisting around them, but his gaze keeps returning to Marinette. Any attempt at subtlety is ruined when she repeatedly catches him glancing at her. Tearing his eyes away from her becomes more difficult each time. 

“It was very clever of you to use the bonfire as a stimulus,” he says, trying to keep his attention on the tiny glowing lanterns. 

“I can’t say I’m surprised you figured that out,” Marinette smiles. “I had to come up with a way to stay connected since I am unable to travel with the circus. The lighting seemed like a perfect opportunity to establish a lasting hold. I didn’t want you to have too much control, after all.” 

Adrien bit his lip, debating how much to tell Marinette, “It had repercussions,” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Let’s just say there are more remarkable things about the Lahiffe twins than their hair.” 

Marinette raises an eyebrow, “But you’re not going to tell me what that is, are you?”

“Well, a gentleman cannot reveal all his secrets,” Adrien says. He pulls a rose down from a hanging branch, closing his eyes as he inhales the scent, the petals velvet-soft against his skin. The details of the illusion are so intricate, it is almost dizzying. “Who thought to sink the garden?” he asks.

“Chloé. It’s inspired by another room in the house– I can show you that one, if you’d like,” 

Adrien nods and they retrace their steps through the garden. He stays closer to her as they walk this time, close enough to touch, though Marinette keeps her hands clasped behind her back. When they reach the terrace, Adrien glances back at the garden, where the roses and lanterns have reverted to dirt and stone. 

Inside, Marinette leads Adrien across the ballroom. She stops at the far wall and slides one of the dark-wood panels open to reveal a curving staircase spiraling downward. 

“What are you doing, taking me to the dungeon?” Adrien jokes as they descend the stairs. 

“Not exactly,” Marinette says, her lips twitching up into a smile. When they reach the gilded door at the end of the stairs, she opens it for him. “Mind your step– I don’t want you to fall,” 

“Already falling for _you,_ My Lady,” he mutters under his breath, stepping through the door. 

The room is small but the ceiling is high, a golden chandelier draped with crystals suspended in the center. The rounded walls are painted a light blue, and the ceiling the deep blue of the night sky, ornamented with stars. 

A path wraps around the edge of the room like a ledge, though the majority of the floor is sunken and filled with large cushions covered in a rainbow of embellished silk. 

“Chloé claims it is modeled after a room belonging to a courtesan in Bombay,” Marinette explains. 

Adrien spins around in the room, “I would love to stay here and read for hours,” 

Marinette laughs, and a strand of her hair falls across her cheek. 

He tentatively moves to tuck it back behind her ear, but just as his fingers begin to touch her, she pushes herself into the pit, her blush-pink gown a billowing cloud as she falls onto a large crimson and black cushion. 

He watches her for a moment before copying her action, sinking into the center of the room alongside her. 

They lie staring up at the chandelier, the light reflecting over the crystals, turning it into the night sky without any need for an illusion. 

“How often are you able to visit the circus?” Adrien asks. 

“Not as often as I’d like,” Marinette says softly, “Whenever it is near Paris, of course. I try to reach it elsewhere in Europe if I can leave Chloé for a sufficient period of time. I sometimes feel like I have a foot on both sides- not really belonging on either. I am familiar without so much of it, yet it is always surprising for me,” 

“Which is your favorite tent?” 

Marinette glances over at him, eyes wide, “I’m surprised you have to ask. It’s yours,” 

“Why?” 

She shrugs, “It appeals to my personal taste, I suppose. You do all these amazing things I was told to do only in secret. Perhaps I appreciate being on a different level than most other tents. I also very much enjoy our Labyrinth. At first, I was unsure whether you would be willing to collaborate on it,” 

“Yes, I got quite the lecture about that particular collaboration. My father called it ‘debauched juxtaposition.’ I’m quite sure that took him hours to come up with,” He says with a sour laugh, “He seems to find something wrong with combing our skills, though I’m not sure why. I love the Labyrinth as well. There’s something so marvelous about adding rooms. And I adore the tunnel you made, with the snow on the ground and underwater tunnel above. It’s magical, to see the footprints that others have left and the jellyfish floating overheard.” 

Marinette smiles, “Winter is magical in itself, but considering I’ve already made the Ice Garden, I wanted to add something else, as well. Although,” she adds, “I’ve never quite thought of it the way you do. I’ll be sure to revisit it next time with that in mind. Though I must say, I was under the impression that your father was not in the position to be commenting on matters of collaboration,” 

“He’s not quite dead,” Adrien says, turning his head back to the ceiling, “And it’s a rather difficult matter to explain, regardless,” 

Marinette decides against pressing him further, returning to the subject of the circus instead. “Which tent is your favorite?” 

Adrien is able to answer without even a moment’s pause for consideration, “The Ice Garden,” 

“And why is that?” she asks with one eyebrow raised. 

“Because of the way it _feels,”_ he says, turning to face Marinette again. “It’s like walking into a dream. Like you’re now in someplace else entirely, instead of just another tent. Although perhaps, just like you, I’m fond of snow. How did you come up with it?” 

Marinette reflects on this for a moment, as she has never been asked the origin of her ideas before. 

“I thought it would be lovely to have a conservatory, but of course I needed to be completely monochromatic,” she says thoughtfully, “I went through many different options before settling on making everything out of ice. I am pleased that you think it’s like a dream, as that is where the core of the idea came from,” 

“It’s the reason I made the Wishing Tree,” Adrien says with a smile, “I thought a tree covered in fire would make for a proper compliment to ones made of ice,” 

Marinette replays in her mind her first encounter with the Wishing Tree. A mixture of annoyance and amazement and wistfulness that all seems different when she’s thinking back on. She was uncertain she would even be able to light her own candle, her own wish. Wondering if it was somehow against the rules. 

“Do all of those wishes come true?” she asks. 

Adrien considers this for a moment, “I’m not sure. I’ve never been able to follow up with every person who has wished on it. Have you?”

“Perhaps,” Marinette replies with a coy smile. 

“Did your wish come true?” 

She ponders this before replying, “We’ll have to wait and see. I’m not sure yet,” 

“You will have to let me know,” Adrien says, “I hope it does. I suppose in a way, I made the Wishing Tree for you.” 

“You didn’t even know who I was then,” Marinette says with an eyebrow raised, turning to look at him. 

“I might not have known your identity, but I had an impression of you who were, being surrounded by the things you made all day. I thought you might like it.” 

“I do like it,” Marinette says softly. 

The silence that falls between the two of them next is a comfortable one, almost cozy. He longs to reach over and brush her cheek, but he resists, fearful of destroying the delicate friendship and relationship they are building. He steals glances instead, watching the light fall in fractals across her skin. Several times he catches her watching him in a similar way, and the moments when she maintains eye contact makes his heart pound. 

“How are you managing to keep everyone from aging?” Adrien asks after a while. 

“Very carefully,” Marinette says, “And they _are_ aging, albeit very slowly. How are you moving the circus?” 

“On a train,” 

“A train?” Marinette asks, incredulous, her mouth slightly agape, “The entire circus is moved by a single train?” 

Adrien shrugs, green eyes sparkling humorously, “It’s a large train.” he says, “And it’s magic,” he adds, making Marinette laugh. 

“I must confess, Monsieur Agreste, you are not exactly what I expected.” 

“I assure you,” Marinette says with a giggle, “the feeling is mutual.” 

Adrien stands, stepping back up to the ledge by the door. 

Marinette reaches out her hand to him and he takes it to help her up. It is the first he has touched her bare skin. 

The reaction in the air is immediate. A sudden charge ripples through the air, crisp and bright. The chandelier begins to shake, crystals clacking together. 

The feeling rushing over Marinette’s skin is intense and intimate, beginning where her palm meets his, but it spreads beyond that. It is feeling like pure electricity, running through her veins. 

Adrien pulls his hand away after he catches his balance, stepping back and leaning against the wall. The feeling begins to subside as soon as he lets her go. 

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, clearly out of breath. “I– I wasn’t expecting that.” 

“My apologies,” Marinette says, her heartbeat pounding so loudly in her ears that she can barely hear him. “Though I can’t be sure I entirely know what just happened.” 

“I tend to be particularly sensitive to energy,” Adrien explains, “People who do the sorts of things you and I do carry a very tangible type of energy, and I… I evidently am not accustomed to yours just yet.” 

“I hope it did not hurt you,” Marinette says gently, “Though it was rather nice for me, at least,” 

Adrien does not reply, and to keep himself from reaching for her hand again, he opens the door instead, letting her lead him back up the twisting staircase. 

The walk through the moonlit ballroom, their steps echoing together. 

“How is Chloé?” Adrien asks, attempting to find a subject to fill the silence, something to distract himself from his still-shaking hands and the urge to grab her hand again. 

“She… she wavers,” Marinette says with a sigh. “Ever since the circus opened, she has become increasingly unfocused. I do what I can to keep her steady, though I fear it has a rather bad effect on her memory. I had not intended to, but after what happened with the late Mlle. Césaire, I thought it would be the wisest course of action.” 

“She was in a peculiar position of being involved in this, but not in the circus itself,” Adrien says. “I am sure it is not the easiest position to manage. At least you can observe Chloé.” 

Marinette nods, “Yes, indeed. But I wish there was a way to protect those outside the circus the way the bonfire protects those within.” 

“The bonfire?” Adrien asks, frowning. 

“Well, it has several purposes. Primarily, it is my connection to the circus, but it also functions as a safeguard of sorts. I somehow managed to neglect the fact that it does not cover those outside the fence.” 

“I didn’t even consider safeguards,” Adrien says. “I do not think I understood how many other people would become involved in our challenge.” He stops walking, standing in the middle of the ballroom. 

Marinette stops standing as well but says nothing, waiting for him to speak. 

“It was not your fault,” he says quietly, “What happened to Ella, I mean. The circumstances might have played out the same way regardless of anything you or I could do. You cannot take away anyone’s free will– that was one of my first lessons,” 

Marinette nods, and then takes a step closer to him. She reaches out to take his hand, slowly brushing her fingers against his. 

“What are you doing?” he asks. 

“You mentioned something about energy,” Marinette explains. “I’m focusing yours with mine, so you won’t break the chandeliers.” 

Adrien raises an eyebrow, “If I broke anything, I could probably fix it,” 

He does not let go, either way. Without the concern for the effect he might be having on the surroundings, he is able to relax into the sensation instead of resisting it. It is wonderful. It is the way he has felt in so many of her tents, the thrill of being surrounded by something wondrous and fantastic, only magnified and focused directly on him. 

They stand gazing at each other in silence for minutes that seem to stretch for hours. 

The clock in the hall chimes and Adrien jumps, startled. As soon as he releases Marinette’s hand, he wants to take it again.

“You hide it so well,” he says, “I can feel the same energy radiating like heat in each of your tents, but in person you conceal it.” 

Marinette shrugs. “Misdirection is one of my strengths,” she says. 

“It won’t be as easy now that you have my attention, My Lady,” 

She raises an eyebrow at the nickname, but does not comment, “I like having your attention. Thank you for this,” 

“I forgive you for stealing my scarf,”

Amusement sparkles in her eyes and snorts. Just as she is about to retort that she did not, in fact, steal his scarf, Adrien vanishes. A simple trick of distracting his attention long enough to slip out through the hall, despite the lingering temptation to stay. 

Marinette finds his scarf left behind in the game room, still draped over her shawl.

* * *

_Standing on a platform in the midst of the crowd, high enough that they can be viewed clearly from all angles, are two figures, as still as statues._

_The woman wears a dress akin to a bridal gown constructed for a ballerina, white with silk and lace, tied with black ribbons that flutter in the night air. Her legs are encased in shimmery stockings, her feet in high-heeled button-up boots. Her dark hair is piled in waves upon her head, adorned with a fan of white feathers._

_Her companion is a handsome man, about a head taller than her, in an impeccable tailored black suit. His shirt is crisp white, his tie silver and pristinely knotted. A black top-hat sits on his head, blonde hair glowing silver in the moonlight peeking out from the edges._

_They stand entwined but not touching, their heads tilted toward each other; lips frozen in the moment before (or after) a kiss._

_Though the patrons watch them for some time, they do not move. No stirring of fingertips or eyelashes. No indication that they are even breathing._

_“They cannot be real,” someone nearby remarks._

_Many patrons only give a passing glance at them before continuing to another tent, but the longer people watch, the more they can detect the subtlest of movements. The change in the curve of a hand as it hovers near an arm. The shifting angle of a perfectly balanced leg. Each of them always gravitating toward the other._

_Yet still, they do not touch._

* * *

The grand anniversary celebration for _Le Cirque du Miraculeux_ is not held after ten years, which was what many had expected, but when the circus has been open and traveling for thirteen years. Some say it is held then because the tenth anniversary has long since passed, and no one thought to have a party until after the fact. 

The reception is held at Chloé Bourgeois's townhouse on Friday, October 13, 1899. The guest list is exclusive, only members of the circus and some select and special guests in attendance. It is not publicized, as is normal with Chloé’s many events, and though some might speculate that it has something to do with the circus, there is no way to be certain. Besides, no one truly speculates the infamously black-and-white circus would be associated with an event so full of color. 

That being said, it is extremely colorful, with both the color and the party-goers adorned in an entire rainbow of shades. The lights in each room are specially treated, greens and blues in one, reds and oranges in another. The tables dotting the dining room are shrouded in vibrantly patterned tablecloths. The centerpieces are elaborate floral arrangements with only the brightest of blossoms. The members of the ensemble that plays odd but lovely music in the ballroom are all wearing suits and dresses of red velvet. Even the champagne flutes are a cobalt-blue glass rather than clear, and the staff wears shades of light green rather than black. Chloé herself wears a dress the color of deep wine embroidered with gold and throughout the evening, she smokes specially made cigars that spout lilac smoke. 

A spectrum of roses ranging in shades from natural pink to unimaginable baby-blue sit in golden vases in the foyer, petals cascading down when anyone passes by. 

Cocktails are poured at the bar in a variety of oddly shaped and colored glasses. There is ruby-red wine and cloudy-green absinthe. Tapestries of vibrant silks hang from the walls and are draped over everything that will stay still. Candles glow in stained-glass holders, casting dancing lights over the party and attendees. 

Emmy and Lou are the youngest of the guests, being the same age as the circus. Their bright-red hair is let loose, as opposed to covered in their usual hats, and they wear coordinating outfits of the warm blue of sunrise, edged in pinks and yellows. As a birthday gift, Chloé gives them two fluffy tabby kittens with blue eyes and striped white and black ribbons around their necks. Emmy and Lou adore them, and prompt dub them Lune and Soleil, though later they can never remember which of the identical kittens is which and refer to them collectively whenever possible. 

The original creators are all there, save for the late Ella Césaire. Etta Césaire comes dressed in a flowing gown of berry red, accompanied by M. Christopher Lahiffe in a suit of navy blue that is about as colorful as he can manage, though his tie is a slightly brighter shade, and he pins a deep red rose to his lapel. 

Monsieur W. F–– arrives in his customary grey. 

Mme. Bourgeois attends, after a great deal of coercion by Chloé, gloriously adorned in golden silks embroidered with cerulean filigree, navy feathers in her white hair. She spends most of the evening in one of the chairs by the fire, watching the party unfold around her rather than participating in it directly. 

The clock-maker in charge of the masterpiece displayed in _Le Cirque du Miraculeux_ , Félix Graham de Vanily, is there by special invitation, under the condition he is not to write a single published word about the gathering nor mention it to anyone. He promises this gladly, and attends wearing red with a touch of black. 

He spends the majority of the evening in the company of Adrien Agreste, whose elaborate suit changes color, shifting through a rainbow of hues to complement whomever he is closest to. 

There are no performers save for the band, as it is difficult to hire entertainment to impress a gathering that is comprised predominantly of circus members. Most of the evening is spent conversing and socializing. 

At dinner, which promptly begins at midnight, each course is styled in black and white but bursts with color once pierced with forks or spoons, revealing layer upon layer of flavors. Some dishes are served on small mirrors rather than proper plates. 

Emmy and Lou slip tastes of appropriate dishes to the marmalade kittens at their feet while listening attentively to Mme. Bourgeois’s tales of her years in ballet. Alya admonishes that the content of said stories may not be entirely appropriate for a pair of barely thirteen-year-olds, but Mme. Bourgeois continues on unfazed, glossing over only the most risque of details that Lou can read in the sparkle of her eyes even if she does not speak them aloud. 

Dessert consists mainly of a gargantuan tiered cake shaped to resemble circus tents and frosted in stripes, the filling within a bright shock of raspberry cream between dark chocolate and vanilla sheet cakes. There are miniature chocolate leopards and strawberries coated in looping patterns of dark and white chocolates. 

After dessert has been cleared, Chloé makes a lengthy speech thanking all the guests for thirteen spectacular years, for the miraculous wonders of the circus that had been nothing but an idea a little more than a decade ago. It goes on for some time about dreams and found-family and striving for uniqueness in a world of uniformity. Some of it is profound; others bits rambling and nonsensical, but it is considered a sweet gesture by everyone in attendance. Many take the opportunity to thank her personally, both for the party and the circus itself. Several make a point of commenting on her sentiments. 

Except for, of course, her remark about how none of them seem to age save for the Lahiffe twins, which was followed by an awkward silence only broken by the sound of Christopher Lahiffe coughing. No one dares mention it, and many seem somewhat relieved that Chloé herself does not seem to remember saying it even an hour later. 

There is dancing after dinner in the ballroom, where lengths of colorful, gold-embellished silk cascade over walls and windows, glimmering in the candlelight. 

Monsieur W. F–– moves along the periphery, going mostly unnoticed and speaking with only a few of the other guests, including Christopher Lahiffe, who introduces him to Félix. The three men have a brief yet engaging conversation about clocks and the nature of time before M. W. F–– makes a polite excuse and fades into the background again. 

He avoids the ballroom entirely, save for a single waltz when Tikki coerces him onto the dance floor. She wears a gown fashioned from a black kimono with cherry trees embroidered in red silk, her hair piled in an elaborate braided style and her eyes rimmed in a striking crimson. 

Their combined grace puts all other dancers to shame. 

Luka, clad in teal, trains in vain to catch Marinette’s attention. She avoids him at every turn, and is difficult to spot in the crowd as she seems to have a penchant for disappearing. Eventually, with the aid of several glasses of champagne, Tikki persuades him to abandon the effort, drawing him out into the sunken garden to distract him. 

Marinette’s attention, when she is not being ordered around by Chloé or hovering over Mme. Bourgeois discussing fashion, belongs only to Adrien. 

“It is destroying me I cannot ask you to dance,” Adrien whispers to her as they pass each other in the ballroom, the pear-green of her lacy dress seeping across his suit like ink. 

“Then you are far too easily destructible,” she murmurs softly, winking at him as Chloé sweeps by and whispers something in his ear. The spreading green is crushed by wine and sparkling gold as he is pulled away from her. 

Chloé introduces Adrien to Monsieur W. F––, unable to recall if they have met before. Adrien claims they have not, though he remembers the gentleman who politely shakes his hand, as he looks exactly the same as he did when he was only six years old. Only his grey suit has changed, updated to fit the current style. 

Several people pester Adrien to perform. While at first, he refuses, later in the evening he relents, pulling a bemused Tikki to the middle of the dance floor and making her disappear in the blink of an eye, despite the crowd around them. One moment there are two people dressed in black and red and the next, Adrien is alone.

Seconds later, there are shrieks from the library as Tikki reappears in a lantern-covered sarcophagus propped up in one corner. Tikki takes a glass of champagne from a stunned waiter, giving him a beatific smile before returning to the ballroom, her silken train trailing behind her. 

She passes by Emmy and Lou, where Emmy is teaching the marmalade kittens to climb onto her shoulders and Lou is pulling book after book from the well-stocked shelves. Eventually, Emmy forcibly drags him from the room to prevent him from suspending the duration of the party reading. 

Guests move in flocks of color from the ballroom through the halls and the library, a constantly shifting rainbow punctuated with laughter and gossip. The mood remains boisterous and bright even into the early morning. 

As Marinette walks through the front hall, Adrien grabs her hand, pulling her into a shadowed alcove behind the looming golden statue. The rose petals swirl madly with the sudden shift in the air. 

She gently detaches her hand from his but does not move away, though there is still not a great deal of room between the two of them. The color of Adrien’s suit settles into a lovely bright green. 

“Green suits you, Adrien,” she says gently. “You look similar to when I first saw you.” 

He tilts his head, smiling, “I take it you wear the color on purpose?” 

“Merely a fortunate coincidence,” Marinette shrugs, “Chloé insisted on the entire staff wearing shades of green. And I did not anticipate the ingenuity of your attire.” 

“I couldn’t decide on what to wear,” 

Marinette flushes, looking down to her shoes, “You look handsome,” 

“Thank you,” Adrien chokes out, struggling to calm the blush on his cheeks, “You are too beautiful. I prefer your actual face,” 

She looks up, and her face immediately changes, reverting to the one he recalls in perfect detail from the evening they spent in the same rooms three years ago under much more intimate circumstances. There has been little opportunity since then for anything more than too-brief stolen moments. 

“Isn’t that a little risky to wear in this company?” Adrien asks. 

“I’m only wearing it for you,” Marinette says, “The rest of them will see me as they always have,” 

They stand watching each other in silence as a laughing group of guests move through the hall on the other side of the statue. The din echoes through the space, though they stay far enough away that Adrien and Marinette escape any notice, and Adrien’s suit remains purely green. 

Adrien lifts a hand to brush a stray wave of hair away from her cheekbone, tucking it behind her ear and stroking her cheek. Her eyelids flutter closed and the rose petals around their feet begin to stir. 

“I’ve missed you,” he says softly. 

The air between them is electric as he leans in, gently brushing his lips against her jawline. 

In the next room, the guests complain about the sudden increase in temperature. Fans are drawn from colorful bags, fluttering like tropical birds. 

In the shadow of the elephant-headed statue, Adrien pulls away suddenly. It is not immediately clear why until clouds of greys and murky lavender swirl through the green of his suit. 

The two of them glance at Gabriel Agreste cautiously and Marinette drops into a perfectly executed curtsy, “Monsieur Agreste,” 

Adrien pulls her closer to his side and whispers something unintelligible in her ear and she quickly excuses herself, walking down the hall where the Lahiffe twins are tempting their marmalade kittens with shiny silver coffee spoons. 

“This behavior is not appropriate, Adrien,” Gabriel says sternly.

“You know her,” Adrien says quietly, his eyes still on Marinette as she stops at the entrance to the ballroom, quickly getting swept further into the ballroom by Félix, who offers her a glass of champagne. 

“I know _of_ her. I cannot rightfully say that I know her in any particular fashion,” 

Adrien frowns, “You knew exactly who she was before any of this even started and you never thought to tell me?” 

“I did not think it necessary,” 

A large group of guests wander into the hall from the dining room, sending the cascade of rose petals adrift once again. Adrien escorts his father through the library, sliding the stained glass open to access the empty game room and continue their conversation. 

“Father, what do you want? What do you want to talk about?” 

“I did not have anything, in particular, to speak with you about. I simply wished to interrupt your… conversation with Mademoiselle Dupain-Cheng. What is it you would like to discuss?” 

“I would like to know if I am doing well,” Adrien says, his voice low and cold. 

Gabriel narrows his gaze, eyes cold, “You are doing adequately. Although,” he adds, “I would suggest that you keep that you keep your distance from her, and concentrate on your own work,” 

“I’m in love with her,” 

Very rarely does anything Adrien says elicit a response from Gabriel that seems even remotely caring, but the expression that crosses his father’s face now is unmistakably sad. 

“I am truly sorry to hear that,” he says. “It will make the challenge a great deal more difficult for you.” 

Adrien sighs, leaning against the wall, “We have been playing this game for more than a decade. When does it end?” 

“It ends when there is a victor.” 

“And how long does that take?” Adrien asks. 

Gabriel shrugs, “It is difficult to say. The last challenge lasted thirty-seven years.” 

“We cannot keep this circus running for thirty-seven years, Father,” 

“Then you will not have a long time to wait. You were a fine student. And you are a fine competitor.” 

Adrien crosses his arms. “How can you know?” he asks, his voice rising. “You have not bothered to say anything other than criticism to me in years. And I have done none of this for you. Everything I have done, every tent I have made, every impossible feat and astounding sight, I have done for _her.”_

“Your motives do not impact the game,”

“Father,” he exclaims, “I am done playing this game. I cannot do this anymore,” 

Gabriel gives him a disapproving look, “You cannot quit,” he replies, “You are bound to this. To her. The challenge will continue, and you can’t stop it. One of you will lose. You have no choice in the matter.” 

Adrien picks up a ball from the billiard table and hurls it at his father. The ball flies through Gabriel as his entire body flickers, and it crashes into one of the shelves, swords rattling. 

Without a word, Adrien turns his back on his father. He walks out the door at the back of the room, not even noticing Luka as he passes him in the hall, where he had been close enough to hear the argument. 

He goes directly to the ballroom, making his way to the center of the dance floor. He takes Marinette’s arm, spinning her away from Félix. 

Adrien pulls her close to him as green seeps back into his suit, until she is so close to him that no distinction remains between where his suit ends and her gown begins. 

To Marinette, there is suddenly no one else in the room as he holds her in his arms. 

But before she can vocalize her surprise, his lips cover hers and she is lost in a magical world with Adrien. 

Adrien kisses her as though they are the only two people in the world, and as he does it, Marinette believes it. 

The air swirls in a tempest around them, blowing open the glass doors to the garden with a tangle of billowing curtains. 

And then he releases her and walks away. 

By the time Adrien leaves the room, almost everyone has forgotten the incident entirely. It is replaced by a momentary confusion that is blamed on the heat or champagne. 

Félix Graham de Vanily cannot recall why Marinette has suddenly stopped dancing, or why one hand is pressed to her lips. 

“Is something wrong?” he asks when he realizes that she is shaking. 

He does not get a response.

* * *

After the illusionist takes his bow and disappears before his rapt audience’s eyes, they clap, applauding the empty air where he once stood. They rise from their seats and some of them chatter with the other patrons, marveling over one trick or another as they file out the door that has reappeared on the side of the striped canvas tent. 

One woman, sitting in the outer circle of chairs, remains in her seat as the rest leave. Her eyes, almost hidden in the shadow cast by her delicately arranged bangs, are fixed on the space in the center of the circle that the illusionist had occupied mere moments before. 

The rest of the audience departs. 

The woman continues to sit. 

After a few minutes, the door fades back into the wall of the tent, invisible once more. 

The woman’s gaze does not waver. She does not so much as glance at the vanishing door. 

A moment later, Adrien Agreste is sitting in front of her, turning to the side and resting his arms on the back of his chair. He is dressed as he had been during his performance, a white suit covered in a pattern of unassembled puzzle pieces, falling together into darkness along the hem of his pants, though he has returned his hair and eyes to their usual color. 

“You came to visit me,” he says, unable to hide the happiness in his voice. 

“I had a few days,” she explains, “And you haven’t been near Paris recently.” 

“We’ll be in Paris in the autumn,” Adrien says, “It’s become somewhat of a tradition for us to go back there are around opening,” 

“I couldn’t wait that long to see you.” 

“It’s good to see you, as well,” Adrien says softly. He reaches out and brushes her cheekbone gently. 

She tilts her head, leaning into his touch, “Do you like the Cloud Maze?” she asks. 

“I do,” he says, fighting back a gasp as her hand grabs his free one. “Did you persuade our Monsieur Christopher to help with that?”

“Why yes, I did,” Marinette says, her voice catching as Adrien runs his thumb along the inside of her wrist. “I thought I could use some assistance in getting the balance right. Besides, you have your Shattered Mirrors and we share the Labyrinth– I thought it was only fair I have a Lahiffe original of my own.” 

The intensity of her eyes and touch rushes over Adrien like a wave. 

“Have you come to show me your own feats of illustrious illusion?” he asks teasingly. 

Marinette raises an eyebrow, “It was not on my agenda for the evening, but if you would like, I suppose I could…” 

“You already watched me, it would only be fair.” 

“I could watch you perform all night,” she admits. 

“You have,” Adrien says with a smile. “You’ve been in every single audience this evening, you have been sure I’d see that.” 

He stands and walks to the center of the circle, turning on his toes. “I can see every seat,” he says. “You are not hidden from me, even when you sit in the back row.” 

“I thought I would be too tempted to touch you if I sat in the front,” Marinette replies, moving from her chair to stand at the edge of the circular performance space, just inside the first row of chairs. 

“Am I close enough for your illusion?” he asks. 

Marinette gives him a sly grin, scarlet gown swirling around her. “If I say no, will you come closer?” she retaliates. 

In response, Adrien takes another step toward him, his shoes brushing against the hem of her gown. Close enough for Adrien to lift an arm and gently place a hand on her waist. 

“You do know we don’t have to be touching for me to perform an illusion, right?” Marinette says with an eyebrow raised. 

“Do you want me to stop?” Adrien asks. 

She sheepishly shakes her, before beginning to focus on the tent around them. “Watch,”

The striped canvas sides of the tent stiffen, the soft surface hardening as the fabric changes to paper. Words appear over the walls, typeset letters overlapping handwritten text. Adrien can make out snippets of Shakespearean sonnets and fragments of hymns to Greek goddesses as poetry fills the tent. It covers the walls and ceiling and spreads out over the floor, papyrus, and ink surrounding the couple.

And the tent begins to open, the paper folding and tearing. The black stripes stretch out into empty space as their white counterparts brighten, reaching up and breaking apart into branches.

“Do you like it?” Marinette asks, once the movement settles and they stand within a darkened forest of softly glowing, poem-covered trees. 

Adrien can only nod. 

He reluctantly releases her, following as she walks through the trees as she points out different verses on branches and trunks. 

“How do you come up with such images?” he asks, placing a hand over the layered paper bark of one of the trees. It is warm and solid beneath his fingers, illuminated from within like a lantern. 

“I see things in my mind,” Marinette says, “In my dreams. I imagine things you might like to see.” 

“I don’t think you’re meant to be imagining how to please your opponent,” Adrien says. 

She shrugs, tracing a finger over a hymn to Apollo. “I have never fully grasped the rules of the game, so I am simply following my wishes instead.” 

“My father is purposely vague about the rules,” Adrien says as they walk through the trees. “Particularly when I inquire as to when or how a verdict will be determined,” 

“Yes,” Marinette nods, “Winston also neglected to provide that information.” 

“I do hope he does not pester you as much as my father does me,” Adrien says with a bitter laugh, “Though, of course, my father has nothing better to do,” 

“I have hardly seen him in years,” Marinette says. “He has always been… distant and not terribly forthcoming, but the is the closest thing to a family I have. And yet, he still tells me nothing.” 

“I’m rather jealous,” Adrien says, “My father constantly tells me what a disappointment I am,” 

“I refuse to believe you could ever disappoint someone,” Marinette says with a frown. 

He snorts, “Well then, I suppose that’s because you’ve never met my father,” 

Marinette turns and reaches for Adrien, resiting a hand on his bicep, “Would you tell me what really happened to him?” she asks. “I’m rather curious,” 

Adrien sighs before he begins, pausing beside a tree etched with words of love and longing. He has never told anyone this story– never been given the opportunity to relate it to anyone who would understand what had happened. 

“My father was always somewhat overambitious,” he starts carefully, “What he meant to do, he did not accomplish. At least, not as he intended. He wanted to remove himself from the physical world.” 

Brow furrowing, Marinette steps closer to him, “How would that be possible?” 

Adrien appreciates that she does not immediately dismiss the idea. He can see her trying to work it out in her mind, and he struggles searching for the best way to explain it. 

“Suppose I had a glass of wine,” he says. A glass of red wine appears in his hand. “Thank you. If I took this wine and poured it into a basin of water, or a lake, or even an ocean, would the wine itself be gone?” 

“No,” Marinette says, shaking her head, “It would simply be diluted.” 

“Precisely,” Adrien nods, “My father figured out a way to remove his glass.” As he speaks, the glass in his hand fades but the wine remains, floating in the air. “But he went straight for the ocean rather than a basin or even a larger glass. He has trouble pulling himself back together again. He can do it, still, but with great difficulty. Had he been content to haunt a singular location, he would likely be more comfortable. Instead, the process left him adrift. He has to cling to certain things now. He haunts his townhouse in New York. The theatres he performs in often. He holds to me whenever he can, though I have learned how to avoid him when I wish to. He hates that, particularly because I am simply amplifying one of his own shielding techniques.” 

“Could it be done?” Marinette asks, staring intently at the floating wine. “What he was attempting? Properly, I mean.” 

Adrien turns to look at the wine hovering without its glass. He raises a hand to touch it and the liquid quivers, dividing into droplets and then coming back together. 

“I believe it could,” he says hesitantly. “Under the right circumstances. It would require some sort of touchstone, I believe. A place, a tree, a physical element to hold on to. Something to prevent drifting away. I suspect my father simply wanted the world at large to function as his, but I believe it would have to be more localized. To function as a glass but leave more flexibility to move within.” 

He touches the hovering wine again, pushing it toward the tree he stands beside. The liquid seeps into the paper, slowly saturating it until the entire tree glows a rich red in a forest of white. 

“You’re manipulating my illusion,” Marinette says, looking curiously at the wine-soaked tree. 

“And you’re letting me,” Adrien replies with a smile, “I wasn’t sure I’d be able to.” 

Marinette regards the tree for a minute, “Could you do it?” she asks, “What he was attempting?” 

Adrien focuses his gaze on the tree before replying. “If I had a reason to, I think I could,” he answers, “But I am rather fond of the physical world. I think my father was feeling his age, which was much more advanced than it appeared, and did not relish the idea of dying. He may have also wished to control his own destiny, but I cannot be certain, as he did not consult me before he attempted it. He left me with a great deal of questions and a funeral to fake. Which, I’ve discovered, is easier than you might suppose.”

“But he speaks with you?” Marinette asks. 

“He does, though not as much as he once did. He looks the same– I think it is an echo, his consciousness retaining some semblance of his physical form. But he lacks solidity and it vexes him greatly. He might have been able to stay more tangible had he done it differently. Though I’m not certain I’d want to be stuck in a tree for the rest of eternity, myself, would you?” 

Marinette shrugs, “I believe that would depend a great deal on the tree,” 

She turns to the crimson tree and it glows brighter, the red of embers shifting to the bright warmth of fire. All of the surrounding trees follow suit. 

As the light from the trees increases, it becomes so bright that Adrien closes his eyes. 

The ground beneath his feet shifts, suddenly unsteady, and he puts a hand on Marinette’s waist to keep both of them upright. 

When he opens his eyes, they are standing on a deck of a ship in the middle of the ocean. Only the ship is made of books, its sails thousands of overlapping pages, and the sea it floats on is deep, black ink. 

Tiny lights hang across the sky, forming constellations as bright as the sun. 

“I thought something vast would be nice after all that talk of confinement,” Marinette explains, leaning into Adrien’s touch. 

The two of them walk to the edge of the deck, and he runs the hand that is not on Marinette’s waist along the spines of books that form the railing. A soft breeze plays with his hair, bringing with the mingling scent of ocean breeze, old books, and rich ink. 

“It’s beautiful,” he says, his voice barely louder than the gentle breeze whispering through the sails. 

He glances down at her left hand resting on the railing, frowning as he regards her bare, unmarked fingers. 

She looks up at him, “Are you looking for this?” she asks, her hand moving with a small flourish. The skin shifts, revealing the scar that wraps around her ring finger. “It was made by a ring when I was fourteen. It said something in Latin, but I don’t know what it was,” 

_“Vivamus, moriendum est,”_ Adrien says in monotone, “Let us live, since we must die. It’s the Agreste family motto. My father was very fond of engraving it on things, though the irony is not lost on me. That ring was likely similar to this one,” 

He places his left hand next to hers, along the adjoining books. The silver band on his finger is engraved with what Marinette had thought was intricate filigree, but it is the same phrase in looping script. 

Adrien twists the ring, sliding it off his finger to reveal a matching scar. “It is the only injury I have never been able to fully heal.” 

“Mine was similar,” Marinette says, looking at his ring though her eyes keep moving back to his scar instead, “Only it was gold. Yours was made by something of Winston’s?” 

Adrien nods.

“How old were you?” she asks. 

“I was six years old. The ring was silver with Chinese characters and a snake engraved on it. It was the first time I’d met someone who could do the things my father could, though he seemed so very different from my father. He told me I was an angel. _Un ange du ciel fait._ It was the loveliest thing anyone ever said to me.” 

Marinette brushes her hand over his, “It is an understatement,” 

A sudden breeze tugs at the layered paper sails. The pages flutter as the surface of the ink ripples below. 

“You did that,” Marinette says.

“I did not mean to,” Adrien replies, although he does not take his hand away. 

Marinette glances at him with a kind smile on her face as he intertwines their fingers, “I do not mind. I can do that myself, you know,” 

The wind increases, sending waves of dark ink crashing into the ship. Pages fall from the sails, swirling around them in a downpour of words. The ship begins to tilt and Adrien almost loses his footing, but he reaches out for Marinette, steadying himself against her while he laughs. 

“This is quite impressive, Mlle. Illusionist,” he laughs. 

“Say my name,” she pleads. She has never heard him speak her name and being held in his arms, she suddenly needs to hear it. “Please,” she adds softly when he hesitates. 

“Marinette,” he says, voice low and soft. He leans down, muttering her name again, “Marinette. _Mari,”_

Just before his lips reach hers, she buries her face into the crook of his neck instead.

“Marinette,” he sighs against her ear, filling her name with all the desire and frustration that he feels himself, his breath brushing against her ear. 

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I… I don’t want to make this any more complicated than this already is,” 

Adrien says nothing, keeping his arms around her, although the breeze begins to settle, the waves that had been pounding against the ship calming. After a moment of silence, when it is clear Marinette is not going to say anything Adrien speaks. “It is already very complicated, My Lady,” he murmurs into her ear, “I have spent a great deal of my life struggling to keep myself in control. To know myself, to know how to keep everything in perfect order. I lose that when I’m with you. That frightens me–” 

“I never want you to be frightened,” Marinette interrupts. 

“It frightens me,” Adrien continues, “because I like it, and you keep pushing me away. It is very tempting to let go. To let you keep me from breaking chandeliers rather than constantly worrying about it, myself.” 

“I could,” she says softly against his shoulder. 

“I know,” 

They stand silently together as the ship drifts toward the endless horizon. 

“Come away with me,” Adrien says, pulling away just enough to look Marinette in the eye, “Away from the circus, and this exhausting game. Away from Winston and my father. Anywhere you want, and I’ll go, as long as you’re there too. ” 

Marinette lets out a broken laugh akin to sob, “Oh, Adrien, we _can’t,”_

“Of course we can,” Adrien insists. “You and I together, we could do anything,” 

“No,” she shakes her head, “We can only do anything here,” 

“I don’t understand,” 

Stepping back, Marinette places a hand on his cheek, “Have you ever thought about it, simply leaving? Really, truly thought about it with the intent to follow through and not as a dream or passing fancy?” When he does not answer, she continues. “Think about it, right now. Picture us abandoning this place and this game and starting over together somewhere else, and mean it.” 

Adrien closes his eyes and draws it out in his mind, focusing not on the wishful dream but the practicalities of it, from organizing the circus to be self-dependent to packing the suits in his rooms, even down the wedding bands on their fingers. 

And then his left hand begins to burn, the pain sharp and searing, beginning at the scar around his finger and racing up his arm, blacking out every thought in his mind. It is the same pain as when the scar was made, increased a thousandfold. 

Marinette immediately drops the illusion, motions of the ship ceasing. The paper crumbles and the ocean of ink fades away, leaving only a circle of chairs inside a striped tent as Adrien collapses to the floor. 

The pain fades slightly when Marinette kneels next to him and takes his hand. 

“The night of the anniversary party,” she says, “The night you kissed me. I thought about it that night. I didn’t want to play anymore, I only wanted to be with you. I thought I would ask you to run away with me and I meant it. The very moment I convinced myself we could do it, I was in so much pain I could barely stand. Félix didn’t know what to make of me, he sat me in a quiet corner and talked to me. He did not pry when I couldn’t explain. I can see why you like him so much, he’s rather awkward, but can be very kind,” 

She looks down at the scar on Adrien’s hand as he struggles to catch his breath. 

“I thought perhaps it was about you,” she says, “So once, I tried to pack up my things and leave Chloé’s townhouse, and that was just as painful. We are well and truly bound to the challenge,” 

Adrien smiles despite the lingering pain, “You wanted to run away with me. I didn’t think the kiss would be quite so effective,” 

“You could have made me forget, taken it out of my memory as easily as you did with everyone else at the party.” 

“That was not particularly easy,” Adrien says, “And I did not want you to forget it,” 

“I honestly don’t think I could,” Marinette replies honestly, “How are you feeling?” 

“Miserable. But the pain itself is fading. I told my father I wanted to quit that night, but I guess I must not have meant it. I only wanted a reaction from him.” 

Marinette shrugs, “It is likely meant to make us think we are not caged. We cannot feel the bars unless we push against them. My instructor says it would be easier if we did not concern ourselves with each other. Perhaps he is right.” 

“Don’t you think I’ve tried?” Adrien says, gently cupping her face, “I have tried to let you go and I cannot. How could I? I have you here, all around me constantly. I sit in the Ice Garden just to get a hint of this feeling being around you. Do you not feel the same for me? Tell me you don't, and I’ll go. Say _Adrien, I don’t love you._ Say it, and I’ll go,” 

“I do,” Marinette says, tears sticking to her bottom lashes, “Of course, I do. I miss you, constantly. I can’t stop thinking about you. I can’t stop dreaming about you. I felt a pull to you even before I met, and every time I think my feelings cannot possibly get any stronger, it does.” 

“Then what is stopping us from being together now?” he asks, slowly moving his hands from her face to her waist. 

She steps closer to him, determined to be as close to him as possible, “I want to. Believe me, I want to. But this is not just about you and me. There are so many people tangled up in this game. And this–” she rests her hands over his, “– is distracting.” 

“I know,” Adrien sighs, resting his forehead against hers, “I should worry about this, but I cannot bring myself to be reasonable. I do worry about what would happen if I lose my concentration,” 

Realization dawns on Marinette’s face, “You don't have a power source,” 

“A power source?” Adrien repeats. 

“The way I use the bonfire,” she explains, “As a sort of conduit. I borrow energy from the fire. You don’t have anything like that, do you? You only work with yourself.” 

Adrien shrugs, “I don’t know any other way,” 

“You are constantly controlling the circus?” Marinette asks. 

He nods. “I am accustomed to it. Most of the time it is manageable.” 

“I can’t imagine how exhausting that must be,” 

She kisses him softly on the cheek before backing away, staying as close to him as she can without touching. 

And then she tells him stories. Myths she learned from her instructor. Dreams and realities she created herself, inspired by bits and pieces of others read in archaic books with crackling spines. Circus concepts that would not fit in tents, but she loved nonetheless. 

He responds with tales from his childhood spent in back rooms of theatres. Adventures in far-flung cities that the circus has visited. He recounts events from his spiritualist days, delighted when she finds the endeavor just as absurd as he does.

They sit and talk until just before dawn, and she leaves him only when the circus is about to close. 

Adrien holds Marinette close to his chest for a moment before he stands, pulling her up with him. 

She takes a card from her pocket that contains only the letter _M_ and an address. 

“I have been spending less time at Chloé’s residence,” she says, handing him the card. “When I am not there, this is where you’ll find me. You are welcome any time– day or night. Should you ever wish to visit me.” 

“Thank you,” Adrien says softly. He turns the card over in his fingers and it vanishes. “When all of this is over, no matter which one of us wins, I will not let you go so easily. Agreed?” 

Marinette smiles. “Agreed.” 

He takes her hand and brings it to her lips, kissing her knuckles. 

Marinette traces the line of his jaw with her fingertips. Then she turns, disappearing before he can reach out to pull her back.

* * *

When the circus arrives in Paris, though Adrien Agreste is tempted to go immediately to the address of Marinette’s flat, which is printed on the card he keeps on his person at all times, he goes instead to Le Grand Paris. 

He does not make any inquiries at the desk. 

He does not speak to anyone. 

He stands in the middle of the lobby, going unnoticed by the staff and guests that pass her on their way to other locations, other appointments, other temporary places. 

After he has stood for more than an hour, as still as one of the circus statues, a man in the grey suit approaches him. 

He listens without reaction as he speaks, and when he is finished, he only nods. 

Adrien executes a perfect bow, and then he turns and leaves.

The man in the grey suit stands alone, unnoticed, in the lobby for some time. 

The circus is always particularly festive on La Toussaint’s Eve. Round paper lanterns hang in the courtyard, the shadows waltzing over their white surfaces like silhouettes. Masks made of leather, silk, and lace in black and white with silver ribbon ties are set in baskets by the gates and around the circus for patrons to wear, should they wish. It is sometimes difficult to discern performers from patrons.

It is an altogether different experience to wander through the circus anonymously. To blend in with the environment, becoming a part of the ambiance. Many patrons enjoy the experience immensely, while others find it disconcerting and prefer to wear their own faces. 

Now the crowd has thinned considerably in these hours past midnight as the clock ticks its way into La Toussaint proper. 

The remaining masked patrons wander like intangible ghosts. 

The line for the fortune-teller has dwindled down to practically nothing in these hours. Most people seek their fortunes earlier in the evening. People often find the late of night suited for less studious pursuits. Earlier, the querents filed in almost nonstop, but as October fades into November there is no one waiting in the line, and no one waiting behind the beaded curtain to hear what secrets the cards have to tell. 

And then the beaded curtains part, though he heard no one approach. 

What Marinette comes to tell him should not be a shock. The cards have been telling him as much for years, but he had refused to listen, choosing to see only the other possibilities, the alternate paths they could take. 

Hearing it from her own lips is another thing entirely. As soon as she speaks the words, a forgotten memory finds its way to the forefront of his mind. Two green-clad figures in the center of a vibrant ballroom, so undeniably in love that the entire room flushes with heat. 

He asks her to draw a single card. The fact that she consents surprises him greatly. 

The fact that she draws _L’Amoureux_ does not. 

When she leaves, Luka removes his sign for the evening. 

He sometimes removes his sign early, or for periods of time when he is tired of reading or in need of respite. Often he spends this time with Tikki, but instead of seeking out the contortionist this particular evening, he sits alone at his table, shuffling his tarot deck compulsively. 

He flips one card face up, then another and another. 

There are only swords– lines of them in pointed rows. Four. Nine. Ten. The single sharp ace. 

He pushes them back into a pile. 

He abandons the cards and turns to something else instead. 

Luka keeps the hatbox under his table. It is the safest place he could think of, easier for him to access. Often, he forgets it is even there, concealing beneath cascading velvet. A constant unseen presence. 

Now, he reaches beneath the table and draws it out from velvet shadows into flickering candlelight. 

The hatbox is plain and round, covered in black silk. It has no latch or hinge, its lid kept in place by two ribbons– one black and one white– that are tied in careful bows. 

Luka places the box upon the table and brushes a thick layer of dust off the top, though much of it sticks to the knotted ribbons. He hesitates, and thinks for a moment that it would be better to leave it alone, to return it to its resting place. But it does not seem to matter any longer.

He unties the ribbons slowly, working the knots out with his fingernails. When they are loosened enough for him to remove the lid, he pulls it off gingerly, as though he is afraid of what might be inside. 

Inside the box is a hat.

It is just as he left it– an old black beret, showing some wear around the brim. It is tied with more black and white ribbons, wrapped like a present in light and dark bows. Beneath the knots of ribbon is a single tarot card. Beneath that is a folded white lace handkerchief, its edges embroidered in looping black vines. 

Luka’s eyes begin to burn. They were such simple things. Knots and intent. 

He had laughed through the lessons, much preferring his cards. They seemed so straightforward in comparison, despite their myriad meanings. 

It was only a precaution, which felt wise in such unpredictable circumstances. No stranger than bringing along an umbrella for a walk on a day where the air feels heavy with rain, even if the sun is shining. 

Though he cannot be certain it is doing anything more than gathering dust, not really. He has no way to be sure, no barometer on which to measure such insubstantial and ineffable things. No thermometer for chaos. At the moment, it feels like he is pushing against an empty void. 

Luka lifts the hat carefully from the box, the long ends of ribbons spilling in a waterfall around it. It is oddly pretty, for being an old hat and a handkerchief and a card tied up in fraying ribbon.

“The smallest charms can be the most effective,” Luka says, taken aback when his voice catches, one tear spilling over. 

The hat does not reply. 

He shakes his head, “I don’t think you’re having any effect at all,” he says. 

Again, the hat does not reply. 

He had only wanted to keep the circus balanced. To prevent the two conflicting sides from causing damage to each other or their surroundings. 

To keep the scales from breaking. 

Over and over in his mind, he sees them together in the ballroom. He remembers snatches of an argument between Marinette and her instructor. Marinette saying she had done everything for _him,_ a statement he had not understood at the time and forgotten soon after. 

But now, it is clear. 

All the emotions in the cards when he would try and read about her, it was all for Adrien. 

The circus itself, all for him. For every beautiful tent she creates, he builds one in return.

And Luka has been helping to keep it balanced. Helping her. Helping them both. 

He looks down at the hat in his hands. 

White lace and black wool, ribbons intertwined. Inseparable. 

Luka tears at the ribbons, pulling at the bows and knots in a sudden fury. 

The handkerchief floats down like falling snow, the initials A.A.A. legible amongst the embroidered vines. 

The tarot card falls to the ground, landing face up. The image of an angel is emblazoned on it, the word _Tempérance_ is printed beneath. 

Luka stops, holding his breath. Expecting some repercussion, some result from this action. But instead, everything is quiet. The candles flicker around him. The beaded curtain hangs still and calm. He suddenly feels silly and stupid, alone in his tent with a pile of tangled ribbon and an old hat. He thinks himself a fool for believing he could have any impact on such things. That anything he ever did mattered at all. 

He reaches down to retrieve the fallen card, but his hand freezes just above it when he hears something. For a split second, it sounds like the squealing brakes of a crashing train. 

It takes a moment for Luka to realize that the noise coming from outside the tent is the sound of Emmy Lahiffe screaming. 

“Though any night at the circus can rightfully be called miraculous,” Félix Graham de Vanily once wrote, “La Toussaint’s Eve is something special. The air itself crackles with mystery.” 

This particular La Toussaint night is cold and crisp. The boisterous crowd is clothed in heavy coats and scarves. Many of them wear scarves, faces lost in swatches of black, silver, and white. 

The light in the circus is dimmer than usual. The shadows seem to dance in every corner. 

Chloé Bourgeois enters the circus without notice. She picks up a black and white mask from a basket by the gates and slips it over her face. The man in the ticket booth does not recognize her when she pays her admission in full. 

She wanders through the circus like a woman sleepwalking. 

The man in the grey suit does not wear a mask. He walks leisurely with a calm, almost lazy gait. He has no particular destination in mind, wandering from tent to tent. Some he enters, others he passes by. He purchases a cup of tea and stays in the courtyard, watching the bonfire flicker white before wandering back into the paths among the tents. 

He has never attended the circus before, and he appears to be enjoying himself, though his expression is difficult to read. 

Chloé follows him, every move, every step. She pursues him through tents and watches him pay for his tea in the courtyard. She stares at the ground near the man in the grey suit’s feet, looking for his shadow. She does not see one, though it is possibly because of the ever-shifting light. 

Other than Chloé, no one pays him any notice. Passersby do not look at him, not even a glance spared despite his height, pristine grey suit, and top hat. Even the girl who sells him tea barely registers him, turning quickly to her next customer. He slides through the circus like a shadow, carrying a silver-tipped cane he does not use. 

Chloé loses him in the crowd more than once, the grey disappearing in a world of black and white dotted with color from the patrons. It never takes her long to spot the grey top hat again, but in the intervals between, she becomes nervous to the point of shaking hands, fidgeting with her coat and the contents of her pockets. 

She mutters to herself. Those that pass by her close enough to hear look at her strangely and later make an effort to avoid her. 

Following Chloé is a young woman, who she would not recognize even if she were to look her in the eye, but still, the young woman keeps her distance. Chloé’s attention remains only on the man in the grey suit, and it does not once wander to this woman who bears a passing resemblance to her assistant. 

Marinette keeps a steady clear-blue gaze on Chloé, wearing no mask on a face only Adrien would recognize, and Chat Noir is otherwise occupied. 

This goes on for quite some time. Monsieur W. F–– tours the circus leisurely. He visits the fortune-teller, who does not recognize him but lays his future out in polite rows of cards, though he admits bits of it are overlapping and confusing; many histories laid out all at once. He watches the illusionist perform. Chat Noir acknowledges his presence with a single, subtle nod before his muscles tense and he doubles his efforts tenfold. He wanders through the Labyrinth. He enters the Shatter Mirrors, countless silhouettes, and figures reflected in front of him. He appears particularly fond of the Ice Garden. 

Chloé follows him from tent to tent, waiting outside the ones she does not enter, drenching in ever-increasing anxiety. 

Marinette loses track of both of them only briefly, when she takes a few moments to attend to another matter. 

The clock by the gates ticks of the minutes later and later, carvings upon it twirling and shifting. 

October slips into November, a change that goes largely unnoticed, save for those who are standing closest to the clock. 

The crowd grows thinner. Masks are returned to baskets in the courtyard and by the gates, jumbled piles of empty eyes and ribbons. Children are dragged away with promises that they may return the next evening, though this is the circus’s last night in Paris, and later the children will feel slighted and betrayed. 

In a passage near the back of the circus, which is somewhat wide and filled with only a handful of patrons, M. W. F–– stops. Chloé watches him from a short distance away, unable to clearly see why he has halted, though it seems perhaps he is conversing with someone. Through her mask, Chloé sees only a still grey suit, a hovering top hat. She sees an open target with nothing standing in between. 

She hears the echo of a voice assuring her that the man is not real. A figment of her imagination. Nothing but a dream. 

Then, there is a pause. For just a moment, time slows like something falling while fighting with gravity. The chill breeze that has circled through the open paths of the circus stops. At that moment, nothing flutters, not the fabric of the tents or the ribbon ties in dozens of masks. 

In the tallest tent, one of the trapeze artists loses her perfect balance, falling some distance before one of her fellow performers catches her, only narrowly avoiding crashing to the ground. 

In the courtyard, the bonfire sputters and sparks in a sudden cloud of black smoke, causing the patrons closest to it to jump back, coughing. 

The kitten that leaps through the air from Emmy’s hands to her brother’s suddenly twists in the air, landing on its back rather than its feet and rolling toward Lou with an indignant howl. 

The illusionist pauses, his seamless performance halted as he stands frozen, his face suddenly deathly pale. He sways as though he might faint, and several attentive audience members move to assist him, though he does not fall. 

Marinette crumples as though punched in the stomach by an invisible assailant. A passing patron catches her arm to steady her. 

And Chloé Bourgeois pulls the heavy gold knife from her coat pocket and throws it without hesitation. 

The knife flies from Chloé’s hand, blade over handle, spinning in perfect revolutions through the air. 

Its aim is precise and steady, as true as such things can be. 

Then, its target moves. 

The tailored grey wool that makes up the back of M. W. F––’s suit shifts. He moves ever so slightly to the side; a graceful step, an unconscious gesture, a movement of weight in space. 

And so the knife brushes by his sleeve, and comes to rest instead in the chest of the man he is speaking with. The blade slides through his unbuttoned black coat easily, hitting his heart as though that had been its intended target, the gold handle jutting out just beneath his crimson scarf. 

Monsieur W. F–– catches Félix Graham de Vanily as he slumps forward.

Chloé stares at her empty hand as though she cannot recall what, exactly, she had been holding moments before. She staggers off, wandering back in the direction of the bonfire courtyard. She forgets to remove her mask when she leaves, and when he finds it discarded in her townhouse the next day, she cannot remember where it came from. 

M. W. F–– lowers Félix to the ground, speaking a constant string of words over him in tones too low for anyone to overhear. The scattered patrons around them notice nothing at first, though some are distracted by the fact that two young performers a few feet away have suddenly ceased their show, the boy in a snow-white suit gathering the visibly agitated kittens. 

After a long moment, Monsieur W. F–– stops speaking and passes and a grey-gloved hand over Félix Graham de Vanily’s face, gently closing his surprised eyes. 

The silence that follows is shattered by Emmy Lahiffe’s screaming as a pool of blood on the ground spreads beneath her boots, staining the white ribbons tied in bows and knots. 

Before the shock of the crowd turns into chaos, M. W. F–– gently removes the gold-handled knife from Félix’s chest. Then he stands and walks away. 

As he passes by a baffled, still unsteady Marinette, he hands her the blood-covered knife without so much as a word or glance before disappearing into the crowd. 

The handful of patrons who witness the event are ushered away quickly. Later, they assume it was a clever stunt. A touch of theatricality for the already festive evening.

* * *

_The sign outside the tent is accompanied by a small box full of smooth, black stones. The text instructs the patrons to take one with them as they enter._

_Inside, the tent is dark, the ceiling covered with open black umbrellas, the curving handles hanging down like icicles._

**_“Excuse me, Monsieur Agreste. I believe you have my umbrella,”_ **

_In the center of the room, there is a pool. A pond enclosed within a black stone wall surrounded by white gravel._

_The air carries the salty tinge of the ocean._

_The man walks over to the edge to look inside, the gravel crunching beneath his black boots._

_It is shallow, but glowing. Shimmering light cascades up through the surface of the water. A soft radiance, enough to illuminate the pool and stones that sit at the bottom. Hundreds of stones, each identical to the one he holds in his hand. The light beneath filters through the spaces between the stones._

_Reflections of light ripple around the room, making it appear as though the whole tent is underwater._

_He sits on the wall, turning the black stone over and over in his fingers._

_The stillness of the tent becomes a quiet melancholy._

_Memories begin to creep forward from hidden corners of his mind. Passing disappointments._

**_“You have disappointed me. You are not trying enough, Adrien. You will have to work harder if you want to win.”_ **

_Lost chances and lost causes._

**_“No, no, no. Félix don’t do this. Félix, no,”_ **

_Heartbreaks and pain and desolate, horrible loneliness._

**_“I have tried to let you go and I cannot. Do you not feel the same for me? Tell me you don't, and I’ll go.”_ **

_Sorrows he thought he had left behind mingle with still-fresh wounds._

_The stone grows heavier in his hand._

_When he drops it in the pool to join the rest of the stones, he feels lighter. As though he has released something much more than just a smooth and polished piece of rock._

* * *

The man in the grey suit slips easily through the crowd of circus patrons. They step out of the way without even considering the movement, parting like water as he heads toward the gate. 

The figure that blocks his path near the edge of the courtyard is transparent, appearing like a mirage in the glow of the bonfire and gently swaying paper lanterns. The man in the grey suit halts, though he could easily continue on through his colleague’s apparition unimpeded. 

“Interesting evening, isn’t it?” Gabriel asks him, drawing curious stares from the nearby patrons. 

The man in the grey suit subtly moves the fingers of one gloved hand, as though turning the pages of a book, and the staring ceases, curious eyes becoming unfocused, their attention drawn to other sights. 

The crowd continues on, moving to and from the gates without noticing either gentleman. 

“It’s not worth the bother,” Gabriel scoffs. “Half these people expect to see a ghost around every corner,” 

The man in the grey suit shakes his head, “This has gotten out of hand,” he says. 

“That’s what makes it fun,” Gabriel says, waving a translucent arm over the crowd. His hand passes through a woman’s shoulder and she turns, surprised, but continues walking when she sees nothing. “Did you not use enough of your concealment techniques, even after ingratiating yourself with Chloé to control the venue?” 

“I control nothing,” the man in the grey suit says, “I established a protocol of secrecy disguised as an air of mystery. My counsel is the reason, the venue moves from location to location unannounced. It benefits both players.” 

Gabriel frowns, “It keeps them apart. If you’d put them together properly from the beginning, my son would have won already,” 

“Has your current state made you blind? You were a fool to trap yourself like this, and you are a fool if you cannot see they are in love with each other. If they had not been kept apart, it simply would have happened sooner,” 

“Then you should have been a damned matchmaker,” Gabriel says, his narrowed eyes vanishing and reappearing in the shifting light. “I have trained my player better than that.” 

“Oh have you?” the man in the grey suit says mildly, “He came to see me. He invited me here personally and you–” He stops, a figure in the crowd catching his eye. 

Shaking his head again, Gabriel furrows his brow, “I thought I told you to chooses a player you could tolerate losing,” he says, watching the way his companion gazes after the distressed young woman in a beret who passes by without noticing either of them, pursuing Chloé through the crowd of patrons. “You always grow too attached to your students. Unfortunate how few of them ever realize that.” 

“And how many of your own students have chosen to end the game themselves?” the man in the grey suit asks, turning back. “Seven? Will your son be the eighth?”

“That is not going to happen again,” Gabriel snaps, grey eyes steely cold. 

“If he wins, he will hate you for it, if he does not already.” 

“He will win. Do not try to avoid the fact that he is a stronger player than yours and always has been.” 

The man in the grey suit lifts a hand in the direction of the bonfire, amplifying the sound that echoes from beyond the courtyard so Gabriel can hear his son, repeating Félix’s name over and over in increasing panic. 

“Does that sound like strength to you?” he asks, dropping his hand and letting Adrien’s voice blend into the din of the crowd. 

Gabriel only scowls, the flames of the bonfire further distorting his expression. 

“An innocent man died here tonight,” the man in the grey suit continues, “A man your player was quite fond of. If he has not already begun to break, this will do it. Was that what you meant to accomplish here? Have you learned nothing after so many competitions? There is never any way to predict what will come to pass. No guarantees on either side, Gabriel,” 

“This is not over yet, Fu,” Gabriel says, vanishing in a blur of light and shadow. 

The man in the grey suit walks on as though he had not paused, making his way through the curtains of silk and velvet that separate the courtyard from the world outside. 

He watches the clock by the gates for some time before he departs the circus.

* * *

Marinette’s flat was once plain and sparse, but now it is crowded with an assortment of mismatched furniture. Pieces that Chloé became bored with at one point or another and were adopted into the eclectic apartment instead of being discarded entirely. 

There are too many books and not enough shelves to hold them, so they sit piled on antique British chairs and sari-wrapped cushions. 

The clock on the mantle is a Félix Graham de Vanily creation, adorned with tiny books flipping through their pages and ladybug’s fluttering their wings as the seconds tick toward three o’clock in the morning. 

The larger books on the desk are moving at a less steady pace as Marinette goes back and forth between the handwritten volumes, scrawling notes, and calculations on loose sheets of paper. Over and over, she crosses out symbols and numbers, discarding books in favor of others, and then returns to the discarded ones again. 

The door of the flat swings open of its own volition, lock falling open and hinges swinging wildly. Marinette jumps from her desk, spilling a bottle of ink across her papers. 

Adrien stands in the doorway, gold hair hanging in his eyes. His cream-colored coat hangs unbuttoned, too light for the chilly weather. 

Only when he moves into the room, the door closing automatically and locking with a series of clicks behind him does Marinette notice that beneath his coat his suit is covered with blood. 

“What happened?” she asks, the hand that had been moving to right the bottle of ink halting midair. 

“You know perfectly well what happened,” Adrien says. His voice is calm, but already ripples are starting to form in the dark surface of the ink pooled on the desk. 

Marinette stares at him, eyes wide, “Are you alright?” She asks, trying to move closer to him. 

“I am most certainly not all right,” Adrien says, and the entire bottle of ink shatters, raining ink over the papers and splattering Marinette’s white dress, falling into invisibility on her black jacket. Her hands are covered in ink, but she is still distracted by the blood on his suit, scarlet screaming on ivory satin, and vanishing on black velvet fretwork that covers his suit jacket like a cage. 

“Adrien,” she says, her voice catching on his name, “What did you do?” 

“I tried,” Adrien answers. His voice breaks on the word so much so that he has to repeat himself. “I tried. I thought I might be able to fix this. I’ve known him for so long that– that it might be like setting a clock to make it tick again. I knew exactly what was wrong, but I couldn’t make it right. He was so familiar but it… it didn’t work, Marinette.” 

The sob that has been building in his chest escapes. Tears that he has been holding back for hours fall drip down his cheeks. 

Marinette rushes across the room to reach him, pulling him closer, letting his tears stain the shoulder of her dress. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, repeating it in a litany over his sobs until he calms, the tension easing in his shoulders as he relaxes in her arms. 

“He was my friend,” he says quietly. 

“I know,” Marinette says, trying to remain calm as she wipes away his tears, leaving smudges of ink across his cheeks. “I am so sorry. I don't know what happened, Adrien, truly. Something was thrown off balance and I cannot figure out what it was.” 

Adrien rests his forehead against her. “It was Luka,” 

“What?” 

“The charm that Luka put over the circus; over you and me. I knew about it, I could feel it. I didn't think it was doing much of anything but apparently, it was. I don’t know why she chose tonight to stop.” 

Marinette sighs, placing a hand on the nape of Adrien's neck. “He chose tonight because I finally told him I love you,” she says, “I should have done it years ago, but I told him tonight instead. I thought he took it well, but clearly, I was mistaken. I haven’t the slightest idea of what Winston was doing there.” 

“He was there because I invited him,” Adrien says. 

Marinette’s eyes widen, “Why would you do that?” 

“I wanted a verdict,” he says, tears springing to his eyes again. “I wanted this to be over so I could be with you. I thought if he came to see the circus, a winner might be determined. I don’t know how else they expect it to be settled. How did Chloé know he would be there?” 

“I don’t know. I don’t even know what possessed her to go there, and she insisted that I not accompany her. I followed her instead, to keep an eye on her. I only lost track of her for a few minutes when I went to speak with Luka and by the time I caught up with him again…” 

“Did you feel as though you had the ground removed from beneath you as well?” Adrien asks. 

Marinette nods. 

“I was trying to protect Chloé from herself,” she says, “I had not even considered she might be a danger to anyone else,” 

“What is all this?” Adrien asks, turning his attention to the books on the desk. They contain endless pages of glyphs and symbols, ringed in text ripped from other sources, affixed to one another, and inscribed over and over. In the middle of the desk, there is another large leather volume. Pasted inside the front cover, surrounded by an elaborately inscribed tree, Adrien can barely make out something that must once have been a newspaper clipping. The only word he can discern is _transcendent._

“This is how I work,” Marinette says. “That particular volume is the one which binds everyone in the circus. It’s the safeguard, for lack of a better word. I placed a copy of it in the bonfire before the lighting, but I’ve made adjustments to this one,” 

Adrien turns through the pages of names. He pauses at a page that holds a scrap of paper bearing the looping signature of Etta Césaire, next to a space where an equal-sized piece has been removed, leaving only a blank void. 

“I should have put Félix in here,” Marinette says softly. “I had never even thought of it.” 

“If it had not been him, it would have been another patron. There is no way to protect everyone. It’s impossible.” 

“I am sorry,” she says again. “I did not know Félix as well as you, but I greatly admired him and his work.” 

“He showed me the circus in a way I had never been able to see if before,” Adrien says. “How it looked from the outside, when you’re not so wrapped up in the tangled strings of it all. We wrote letters to each other for years.” 

Marinette smiles sadly, “I would have written you, myself, if I could put down in words everything I wanted to say to you. Everything I felt about you. Everything I saw that made me think of you. A sea of ink would not be enough,” 

Adrien is drawn back to that night, standing on a paper-page boat and ocean of night-black ink. “But you built me dreams instead,” he says, looking down at her. “And I built you tents you hardly ever see. I have so much of you always around me and I have been unable to give you anything in return that you can keep.” 

“I still have your scarf,” Marinette replies, tears sticking to her bottom lashes. 

He smiles softly while he closes the book. Beside it, the spilled ink seeps back into its jar, the glass fragment reforming around it. 

“I believe this is what my father would call working the outside in rather than the inside out,” he says, “He was always cautioning against it.” 

“Then, he would despise the other room,” Marinette says, traces of sadness slowly disappearing from her face. 

Adrien tilts his head, “What room?” The bottle of ink settles as though it had never been broken. 

Marinette beckons him forward, leading him to the adjoining room. She opens the door but does not step through it, and when Adrien follows her, he can see why. 

It may have once been a study or a parlor, not very large, and perhaps it could have been referred to as cozy were it not for the layers of paper and ribbon hanging from every available surface. 

Pale pink and white ribbons hang from the chandelier and loop over the tops of shelves. They tie back into each other like a web cascading from every ceiling. 

On every surface, tables and desks, and armchairs, there are meticulously constructed models of tents. Some are made from newsprint, others from silken fabric. Bits of blueprints and novels and stationery, folded and cut and shaped into groups of striped tents, all tied together with more string in black and white and red. They are bound to bits of clockwork, pieces of mirrors, stumps of dripping candles. 

In the center of the room, on a round wooden table that is painted black but inlaid with geometric shapes of mother-of-pearl, there is a small iron cauldron. Inside it, a fire burns merrily, the flames bright and white, casting long shadows across the space. 

Adrien takes a step into the room, ducking to avoid the strings that hang from the ceiling. The sensation is identical to entering the circus, even down to the scent of caramel lingering in the air, but there is something deeper beneath it, something heavy and ancient underlying paper and ribbons. 

Marinette stays in the doorway as Adrien carefully navigates around the room, mindful of his step as he peers into the tiny tents and delicately runs his fingers over the bits of string and clockwork. 

“This is very old magic, isn’t it?” he asks. 

“It’s the only kind I know,” Marinette responds. She tugs a string by the doorway and the movement reverberates through the whole room, the entire model circus sparkling as bits of metal catch the white firelight. “Though I doubt it was really created for this purpose,” 

Adrien pauses at a tent containing a tree branch covered in candle wax. Orienting himself from there, he locates another, gently pushing open the paper door to find a ring of tiny chairs representing his own performance space. 

The pages that comprise it are printed with Shakespearean sonnets. 

He reluctantly lets the paper door swing closed. 

He finishes his tentative tour around the room and rejoins Marinette in the doorway, pulling the door closed softly behind him. 

The sensation of being within the circus fades as soon as he has crossed the threshold, and he is suddenly aware of everything in the adjoining room. The warmth of the fire meeting the draft of the windows. The scent of Marinette’s skin beneath the ink and her perfume. 

“Thank you for showing me that,” he says. 

“I take it your father would not approve?” Marinette asks. 

“I don’t particularly care what my father approves of any longer.” 

Adrien wanders past the desk and stops in front of the fireplace, watching miniature pages turning through time on the clock upon the mantle. 

Next to the clock, there sits a solitary playing card; the two of hearts. It bears no sign that it was once pierced through by a dagger. No evidence that Adrien’s blood had stained the surface, but he knows it is the same card. 

Marinette quietly approaches him, “I would speak with Winston,” she offers. “Perhaps he saw enough to provide a verdict, or it could result in some sort of disqualification. I’m certain he thinks me a disappointment at this point. He could declare you the win–”

“Stop,” Adrien says without turning to face her. “Please, stop Marinette. I don’t want to talk about this wretched game anymore,” 

Marinette attempts to protest, but her voice catches in her throat. She struggles against it, but finds she is unable to speak. 

Her shoulders fall in a silent sigh. 

“I am so tired of all this, Marinette. So tired of trying to control all these things. Tired of holding myself back constantly in fear of breaking things that cannot be fixed.” Adrien says with a sigh, “They will break no matter what we do,” 

She leans against his chest and he wraps an arm around her, gently stroking the back of her neck. They stay like this for some time, alongside the crackling of the fire and the ticking of the clock.

When she turns to face him, she slides the coat from his shoulders, resting her hands along the thin material of his dress shirt, his on her care shoulders and back blades. 

The familiar longing that always accompanies the touch of his skin washes over Marinette and she can no longer resist it, no longer wants to. 

“Adrien,” she says, her fingers fumbling along the buttons on his vest. “Adrien, I–” 

And then his lips are on hers, gently coaxing responses out of her, begging her to reciprocate. They pull and tug at clothing until there is nothing left separating the two of them before Adrien pulls her down to the floor with him. 

Though there are many delicate objects in the room, nothing breaks. 

Adrien wished he could freeze time lying next to Marinette, but now he stands in the hallway outside her flat, his father staring at him disapprovingly. 

He sighs, “But this is the game, isn't it?” he asks. “It’s about how we deal with the repercussions of magic when placed in a public venue, in a world that does not believe in such things. It’s a test of stamina and control, not skill.” 

“It’s a test of strength,” Gabriel corrects him, “And _you_ are weak. Weaker than I’d thought.” 

“Then let me lose,” he says in exasperation. “I am exhausted, Pére. I cannot do this any longer. It’s not as though you can gloat over a bottle of whiskey once a winner is declared.” 

Gabriel frowns, “A winner is not _declared._ The game is played out, not stopped. You should have figured that much out by now. You used to be somewhat clever.” 

Adrien glares at him, but at the same time, he begins turning over his words in his mind, collecting the obscure non-answers about the rules he has been given over the years. Suddenly, the shape of the elements he has always avoided becomes more distinct, the key unknown factor clear. 

“The victor is the one left standing,” he says, the scope of it finally making devastating sense. 

“That is a gross generalization. But I suppose it will suffice.” 

Adrien turns back to Marinette’s flat, pressing his hand against the door. 

“Stop behaving as though you love that girl,” Gabriel says, “You are above such mundane things.” 

He frowns, fists clenching, “You are willing to sacrifice me for this,” he realizes, “To let me destroy myself just so you can attempt to prove a point. You tied me into this game as a child, knowing the takes. And you let me think it was nothing but a simple challenge of skill.” 

“Don’t look at me like that; as if you think me inhuman,” Gabriel says.

“I can see through you,” Adrien snaps. “It is not particularly trying on my imagination.” 

“It would not be any different if I were still as I was when all this started.” 

“And what happens to the circus after this game?” Adrien asks. 

“The circus is merely a venue,” he says, “A stadium. A very festive coliseum. You could continue on with it after you win, though without the game it serves no purpose.” 

“I suppose the other people involved serve no purpose as well, then?” Adrien asks, “Their fates are only a matter of consequence?” 

“All actions have repercussions,” Gabriel replies, “That’s simply a part of the challenge.” 

“Why are you telling me all this now, when you have never mentioned it before?” 

“Before,” he says coldly, “I had not thought you were in a position to be the one to lose.” 

He frowns, “You mean the one to die,” 

“A technicality,” his father says, “A game is completed only when there is a single player left. There is no other way to end it. You can abandon any misguided dreams of continuing to romance that nobody Winston plucked out of a London gutter after this is over,” 

“Who is left, then?” Adrien asks, ignoring his father’s comment. “You’ve said that Winston’s student won the last challenge. What happened to him?” 

A derisive laugh shudders through the shadows before Gabriel replies. 

_“She_ is bending herself into knots in your precious circus.”

* * *

_The only illumination in this tent comes from the open roof and stars. There are no lanterns nor flames, just the subtle glow of the night sky._

_Silver shimmering sand floats through the air, forming flocks of birds, frolicking otters, and silhouettes of people. In the center of the tent, there is a sunken pit of pillows, and in it stands a short young boy with dark hair speckled with stars._

_The boy seems to be controlling the dust in the air, his eyes closed as he shapes and forms them into images in front of the patrons._

_On one platform, there is a couple made of the silver sand waltzing, and though no music plays in the tent, the closer one gets to that particular platform, the patrons will later swear they could hear a violin gently playing in the background. The ballgown made of miniature stars swirls around the woman, and just as the couple is about to kiss, the shimmering silver disappears, before reappearing next to the young boy, dancing atop the cloud-like pillows._

_Elsewhere, a pride of lions plays overhead, silver sparking as the cubs tackle each other. Lions approach the patrons, nudging them with their heads as though they are made of much more than sparkling silver sand._

_Le Marchand de Sable holds the silver dust in his hands, forming them into snakes and flowers and all manner of shapes. The silver sparks from shooting stars, birds flame and disappear like phoenixes._

_He smiles at the patrons as they watch the sand in his hand become, with the deft movement of his fingers, a boat. A book. A heart of silver._

* * *

The train is entirely unremarkable as it chugs across the countryside, puffing clouds of grey smoke into the air. The engine is almost entirely black, the cars it pulls just as monochromatic. Those with windows have tinted and shadowed glass, those without are dark as coal. 

It is silent as it travels, no whistles or horns. The wheels on the track are not screeching but gliding smoothly and quietly. It passes practically unnoticed along its route, making no stops. 

From the exterior, it appears to be a coal train, or at least something similar. It is utterly unremarkable. 

The interior is a different story. 

Inside, the train is opulent, gilded, and warm. Most of the passenger cars are lined with thick patterned carpets, upholstered in velvets and burgundies and violets and cream, as though they have been dipped in sunset, hovering at twisting light and holding on to the colors before they fade to midnight and stars. 

There are lights in sconces lining the corridors, cascades of crystals falling from them and swaying with the motion of the train, smoothing and serene. 

Shortly after its departure, Adrien tucks a leather-bound book safely away, camouflaged in plain sight among his own volumes. 

He changes from his bloodstained suit into a carefully tailored one of moonlight grey, adorned with patterns in black, white, and charcoal. Instead of fastened with buttons, it is instead fastened with ribbons.

The ribbons drift behind him ethereally as he makes his way down the train. 

He stops at the only door that has two calligraphed characters as well as a handwritten name on the tag next to it. 

His polite knock is answered immediately, inviting him inside. 

While most of the private train compartments are saturated with color, Tikki’s car is almost completely neutral. It is a minimally decorated space surrounded by paper screens and curtains of raw silk, perfumed with scents of cherry blossom and citrus. 

Tikki sits on the floor in the center of the room, wearing a faerie-like crimson dress made of chiffon. A beating heart in the pale chamber. 

And, she is not alone. Luka lies on the floor with his head on Tikki’s shoulder, sobbing softly. 

“I did not mean to interrupt,” Adrien says. He hesitates in the doorway, ready to slide the door closed again. 

“You are not interrupting,” Tikki replies, beckoning him inside, “Perhaps you will be able to help me convince Luka that he is in need of some rest.” 

Adrien says nothing, but Luka wipes his eyes, nodding as he stands. 

“Thank you, Tikki,” he says, smoothing out of the wrinkles in his pants. Tikki remains seated, her attention on Adrien. 

Luka stops next to Adrien as he makes his way to the door. 

“I am sorry about Félix,” he says softly. 

Adrien nods, “I am as well,” 

For a moment, Adrien thinks Luka means to say something more, but instead he only nods before leaving, sliding the door closed behind him. 

“The last hours have been long for all of us,” Tikki says after Luka has departed. “You need tea,” she adds before Adrien can explain why he is there. Tikki sits him down on a cushion and walks silently to the end of the car, fetching her tea supplies from behind one of the tall screens. 

It is not the full tea ceremony that she has performed on several occasions over the years, but as Tikki slowly prepares two cups of green matcha, it is calming nonetheless. 

“Why did you never tell me?” Adrien asks when Tikki has settled herself across from him. 

Tikki raises an eyebrow, a coy smile almost hidden by her tea. “Tell you what?”

Adrien sighs. He wonders if Etta Césaire had felt a similar frustration over two cups of tea in Constantinople. He has half a mind to break Tikki’s teapot, just to see what she would do. 

“Did you injure yourself?” Tikki asks, nodding to the scar on Adrien’s finger. 

“I was bound into a challenge almost thirty years ago,” Adrien answers, though he is sure Tikki already knows. He sips his tea before adding, “Are you going to show me your scar, now that you have seen mine?” 

Tikki smiles and places her tea on the floor in front of her. Then she tilts her head to one side and brushes a strand of scarlet hair away from her neck.

At the crook of her neck, in the space between a shower of tattooed symbols, nestled in the curve of a crescent moon, there is a faded scar about the size and shape of a ring. 

“The scars last longer than the game, you see,” Tiki says, rearranging the hair around her shoulders. 

“It was one of my father’s rings that did that,” Adrien says, but Tikki does not confirm or deny the statement. 

Instead, she asks, “How is your tea?” 

“Why are you here?” Adrien counters. 

Tikki brushes a hand along the cherry blossom on her collar-bone. “I was hired to be a contortionist,” 

Adrien puts down his tea.

“I am not in the mood for this, Tikki,” he says. 

“Should you choose your questions more carefully, Adrien, you may receive more satisfying answers.”

He frowns, “Why did you never tell me you knew about the challenge?” Adrien asks, “And that you had played before yourself?” 

“I made an agreement that I would not reveal myself unless I was approached directly,” Tikki says, “I keep my word,” 

“Why did you come here, in the beginning?” 

She shrugs, “I was curious. There has not been a challenge of this sort since the one I participated in. I did not intend to stay,” 

“Then why did you stay?” 

“I liked Mademoiselle Bourgeois. The venue for my challenge, though similar, was more intimate, and this seemed unique. It is rare to discover places that are truly unique. I stayed to observe.” 

“You’ve been watching us,” Adrien says bluntly. 

Tikki nods. 

“Tell me about the game,” Adrien says, hoping to get a response to an open-ended inquiry now that Tikki is more forthcoming. 

“There is more to it than you think,” Tikki says, “I did not understand the rules, myself, in my time. It is not only about what you call magic. You believe adding a new tent to the circus is a move? It is more than that. Everything you do, everything movement of the day and night is a move. You carry your chessboard with you– it is not contained within the canvas and stripes. Though you and your opponent do not have the luxury of polite squares to stay upon.” 

Adrien considers this while he sips his tea. Attempting to reconcile the fact that everything that has happened with the circus, with Marinette, has been part of the game. 

“Do you love her?” Tikki asks, watching him with thoughtful eyes and the hint of a smile that might be sympathetic, but Adrien always found Tikki’s expressions difficult to decipher. 

Adrien sighs. There seems no good reason to deny it. “I do,” he says. 

“Do you believe she loves you?” 

Adrien does not answer. The phrasing of the question deeply troubles him. Only hours ago, he was certain. Now, sitting in this cave of lightly perfumed silk, what had seemed constant and unquestionable feels as delicate as steam floating over his tea. As fragile as an illusion. 

“Love is fickle and fleeting,” Tikki continues. “It is rarely a solid foundation for decisions to be made upon, in any game.” 

Adrien closes his eyes to keep his hands from shaking. 

It takes him longer to regain his control than he would like.

“Luka once thought she loved him,” Tikki continues, “He was certain of it. That is why he came here, to assist her.” 

“She does love me,” Adrien says, though the words do not sound as strong when they fall from his lips as they did inside his head. 

“Perhaps,” Tikki replies. “She is quite skilled at manipulation. Did you not once like to people yourself, telling them what they wished to hear?” 

Adrien is not sure which is worse. The knowledge that for the game to end, one of them must die, or the possibility that he means nothing to her. That he is only a piece across the board. Waiting to be toppled and checkmated. 

“It is a matter of perspective, the difference between opponent and partner,” Tikki says. “You step to the side and the same person can be either or both or something else entirely. It is difficult to know which face is true. And you have a great many factors to deal with beyond your opponent.” 

“Did you not?” Adrien asks. 

“My venue was not as grand. It involved fewer people, less movement. Without the challenge within it, there was nothing to salvage. Most of it is now a tea garden, I believe. I have not returned to that place since the challenge concluded.” 

“The circus could continue after– after this challenge is concluded,” Adrien says. 

He leaves his true thoughts and intentions unspoken; _After I have died for Marinette._

“That would be wonderful,” Tikki agrees, “A proper tribute to Monsieur Félix Graham de Vanily. Though it would be complicated, making it completely independent for you and your opponent. You have taken on a great deal of responsibility for all of this. You are vital to its operation. If I stabbed a knife into your heart right now, the train would crash.” 

Adrien puts down his teat, watching as the smooth motion of the train sends soft ripples through the surface of the liquid. In his head, he calculates how long it would take to halt the train, how long he might be able to keep his heart beating. He decides it would likely depend on the knife. 

“Possibly,” he says. 

“And if I were to extinguish the bonfire or its keeper, that would also be problematic, yes?” 

Adrien nods. 

Tikki’s face remains undisturbed, though her voice betrays the importance of the matter, “You have work to do if you expect this circus to endure,” 

“Are you offering to help?” Adrien asks, hoping she will be able to aid in translating Marinette’s systems, as they shared the same instructor. 

Tikki gives a polite shake of her head, “No,” she says, her smile softening the harshness of the word. “If you are unable to manage this properly yourself, then I will step in. This has gone on far too long already, but I shall give you some time,” 

“How much time?” Adrien inquires. 

Tikki sips her tea. 

“Time is something I cannot control,” she says. “We shall see,” 

They sit in meditative silence for some of that uncontrollable time, the motion of the train gently billowing the silk curtains, the scent of cherry blossom and citrus enveloping them. 

“What happened to your opponent?” Adrien asks. 

Tikki looks not at Adrien but down at her hands folded in her lap as she responds. 

“My opponent is now a pillar of ash standing in a field in Kyoto,” she says, voice heavy with sadness, “Unless wind and time have taken him further away from me,”

* * *

After the illusionist takes his bow and disappears before his rapt audience’s eyes, they clap, applauding the empty air where he once stood. They rise from their seats and some of them chatter with the other patrons, marveling over one trick or another as they file out the door that has reappeared on the side of the striped canvas tent. 

One woman, sitting in the outer circle of chairs, remains in her seat as the rest leave. Her eyes, almost hidden in the shadow cast by her delicately arranged bangs, are fixed on the space in the center of the circle that the illusionist had occupied mere moments before. 

The rest of the audience departs. 

The woman continues to sit. 

After a few minutes, the door fades back into the wall of the tent, invisible once more. 

The woman’s gaze does not waver. She does not so much as glance at the vanishing door.

A moment later, Adrien Agreste is sitting in front of her, turning to the side and resting his arms on the back of his chair. He is dressed as he had been during his performance, an all-black suit with white lattice-work patterns along the sleeves of his jacket, though he has returned his hair and eyes to their usual color. 

“You usually sit in the back,” he says. 

Marinette shrugs, “I wanted a better view,” 

“You came quite a ways to be here.” 

“I had to take a holiday,” 

Adrien looks down at his hands.

“You did not expect me to come all this way, did you?” Marinette asks, tilting her head. 

He sighs before admitting, “No, I did not,” 

“You know, it’s rather difficult to hide when you travel with an entire circus,” she says sardonically. 

“I have not been hiding,” Adrien responds tiredly. 

“You have,” Marinette exclaims with what is almost a laugh, “I tried to speak with you at Félix’s funeral, but you left before I could find you, and then you took the circus across the Atlantic. You’ve been avoiding me, though for what reason, I’m not entirely sure,” 

“It was not entirely intentional,” Adrien says softly. “I need some time to think. And thank you, for the Pool of Tears,” she adds. 

“I wanted you to have a place where you felt safe enough to cry,” Marinette explains, voice soft yet strong, “If I could not be with you.”

Tears sting the backs of his eyes now. He closes his eyes and does not reply. 

“You stole my book,” Marinette says after a moment. 

Adrien cannot bring him to say anything except, “I’m sorry,” For so, so many things, he is sorry. 

“As long as it is somewhere safe, it does not matter whether I keep it or you do. But you could have asked. You could have said goodbye,” 

Adrien nods. 

“I know,” he says. 

Neither of them speaks for some time. 

“I am trying to make the circus independent,” Adrien says at last, “To untie it from the challenge, from us. From me. I needed to learn your system to make it work properly. I cannot let a place so important to so many people fade away. Something is that is miracle and comfort and mystery all together that they have nowhere else. If you had that, wouldn’t you want to keep it?” 

Marinette clasps her hands together so tightly, her knuckles turn white. “I have that whenever I’m with you. Let me help,” 

“I don’t need your help.” 

“Honestly, Adrien,” Marinette says in exasperation, “You cannot do this alone,” 

He shakes his head, “I am not alone. I have Christopher Lahiffe and Etta Césaire,” he says. “They have agreed to assume management for the basic operation. With a little more training, Emmy and Lou should be able to handle the manipulation aspects that Christopher and Etta cannot manage. I–” he chokes on his next words. “I do not need you.” 

He cannot look her in the eye. 

“You don’t trust me,” she says. 

“Luka trusted you,” Adrien replies, looking intently at the ground, “So did Chloé. How can I believe that you are honest with me and not with them, when I am the one you have the most reason to deceive?” 

“I never once told Luka I loved him,” Marinette replies, “I was young and foolish and so _desperately_ lonely. I should not have let him think I felt more strongly than I did, but what I felt for him years ago is nothing compared to what I feel for you now. This is not a tactic to deceive you, Adrien. Honestly, do you think me that cruel?” 

Adrien rises from his chair, unable to keep the onslaught of tears at bay anymore. “Goodnight, Mlle. Dupain-Cheng,” 

“Adrien, wait,” Marinette says, standing but not moving closer to him. “You are breaking my heart. You keep _leaving_ me, Adrien. You leave me longing for you again and again when I would give _anything_ for you to stay!” she adds softly, “It is killing me,” 

“It is not killing you. It can only kill one of us, and that will be me,” Adrien says. 

“What?” Marinette asks, head snapping up. 

“One of us has to die. The one who survives is the victor,” he explains. “The winner lives, the loser dies. That’s how the game ends.” 

“That–” Marinette stops, shaking her head, “That cannot be the purpose of this.” 

“It is,” he insists, “It is a test of self-endurance, not skill. I’m attempting to make the circus self-sufficient before…” 

Adrien cannot bring himself to say the words, still barely able to look at her. 

“You’re going to do what your father did,” Marinette says, “You’re going to take yourself off the board.” 

“No, I will not be reduced to an empty shell of what I once was,” Adrien says. _“Vivamus, moriendum est._ I intend to let you win, and I intend to do it properly,” 

“No,” Marinette chokes out, tears streaming down her face, “Adrien, _no._ You cannot mean that.” 

“It is the only way to stop the game,”

“Then we’ll continue playing,”

“I can’t,” Adrien says. “I cannot keep holding on to the circus. Every night it becomes more difficult. And I… I have to let you win.” 

“I don’t want to _win,”_ Marinette exclaims, throwing her arms out to the side, “I want _you._ Truly, Adrien, do you not understand that?” 

Adrien says nothing, but tears roll down his cheeks. He does not move to wipe them away. 

“How can you think I don’t love you?” Marinette asks. “Adrien, you are everything to me. I don't know who is trying to convince you otherwise, but you must believe me. Please,” 

He only looks at her with teary green eyes, the first time he has held her gaze steadily. 

“This is when I knew I loved you,” she says. 

They stand in an empty ballroom, moonlight filtering in around them. 

“I was enchanted from the moment I saw you,” Marinette adds, “But this is when I knew.” 

The room changes around them again, contracting into a small, round room painted rich blue and dotted with stars. They stand on a ledge around a pool of jewel-toned cushions. A shimmering chandelier hangs above them. 

“This is when I knew,” Adrien says, his voice a whisper echoing softly around them. 

Marinette moves to close the distance between them, kissing away his tears before he catches her lips with his. 

As they kiss, the bonfire glows brighter. The dancers along The Scales move in perfect synchronization through spins and leaps. The entire circus sparkles, dazzling every patron. In that moment, it is truly a place of miracles. 

And then, the immaculate cohesion stops as Adrien reluctantly breaks away. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, unable to think of anything else to say. 

“Please,” Marinette begs, her fingers holding tightly to his shoulders. “Please don’t leave, Adrien. Don’t go,” 

“It’s too late,” Adrien says, gently brushing away the tears on her face. “It was too late by the time I arrived in Paris to turn your notebook into a falcon. There were already too many people involved. Anything either of us does has an effect on everyone here, on every patron who walks through those gates. Hundreds if not thousands of people. All flies caught in a spiderweb my father and Winston spun when I was six years old and now I can barely move for fear of losing someone else.” He looks down at her, brushing his thumb against her cheekbone. “Will you do something for me?” 

“Anything,” Marinette says earnestly. 

“Don’t come back,” he says, voice breaking as his heart does. 

He vanishes before Marinette can protest, as simply and elegantly as at the end of his act, his suit fading beneath her hands. Only his cologne lingers in the space he occupied moments before. 

Marinette stands alone in an empty tent with nothing but two rings of chairs and an open door, waiting for her to leave. 

Before she departs, she takes a single playing card from the folds of her dress and places it on his chair. 

The bright red pair of hearts stare up at the black and white ceiling. 

There is no frost upon the windows of Marinette’s flat, so she inscribes lines of symbols in the shape of a letter _W_ with ink, pressing her stained finger against the panes. The ink drips down over the glass like midnight rain. 

She sits staring at the door, twisting the silver ring around her finger in anxious circles until the knock comes early the next morning. 

The man in the grey suit does not admonish her for calling. He stands in the hall outside the door with his hands placed atop the silver-carved turtle of his cane and waits for Marinette to speak. 

“He thinks one of us has to die in order for the game to end,” Marinette says. 

“He is correct.” 

Having the confirmation is worse than Marinette expected. The small glimmer of hope she had held that he might be mistaken is crushed by three simple words. 

“To win would be worse than losing,” she manages to say through a tightening throat. 

“I did inform you that your feelings might make the challenge difficult multiple times,” her instructor replies. 

Marinette shakes her head, wiping furiously at her tears, “Why would you do this to me?” she asks, “Why would you spend all that time training me for such a thing?” 

The pause before the response is heavy. 

“I thought it would be preferable to the life you might have had otherwise, regardless of the consequences.” 

“Anything–” Marinette says, choking on her words, “Anything would have been better than this,” 

She closes and locks the door. 

The man in the grey suit lifts his hand to knock again, but then lowers it and walks away instead.

* * *

_One cannot see where the room begins or ends, for the air is filled with pure white butterflies. There is no performer in this tent, just the patrons in a butterfly-filled room._

_The tent seems to go on forever, blank white space and thick, sweet air. Plants not unlike those in the Ice Garden grow in certain spots, the butterflies occasionally landing on flowers or leaves. However, more often than not, they land on the arm of one patron or another._

_They laugh delightedly staring at the butterfly, and it takes them a moment to realize that they do not look the same as they had been before the butterfly landed on them. Although there are no mirrors in this room, they can see exactly what they look like, a near-mirage appearing in front of them._

_Perhaps they stand straighter, admire whatever features the butterfly has amplified (for they never change, merely emphasize)._

_Auras seem to glow around the patrons, blues for those of intelligence, red for strength, green for courage, filling the snowy white room in a monochromatic circus with color._

_The ceiling, instead of plain white, now looks like Aurora Borealis, colors and stars projected towards the sky._

_Even after the butterflies flutter back into the sky, even after the patrons leave the tent, searching for other adventures and miracles, one cannot help but think whatever transformation took place in that tent has stayed with each of the patrons, long after they have gone._

* * *

Marinette’s back slams against the ground as though she had been roughly pushed, leaving her coughing both from the impact and cloud of black smoke surrounding it. 

A light rain is falling as she pushes herself back up, and the air around her clears, she sees a row of tiny trees and stars, surrounded by silver gears and black-and-white chess pieces. 

She is pleased to realize she is exactly where she had intended to go. 

The clock is ticking toward midnight, the harlequin juggles at the top balancing eleven balls amongst the twinkling stars and moving pieces. 

The sign announcing the circus’s closure due to inclement weather clatters in the wind, though for the moment that rain is not much more than a heavy mist. 

Marinette rubs away at the shimmering powder on her face, which has reverted back to its true form, though she is too distracted to change it. She attempts to rub away the dark ash on her dress, but it is already fading away. 

The striped curtain beyond the ticket booth hangs open and through the haze of fine mist, Marinette can see a figure standing in the shadows, illuminated by the sharp spark of light from a cigarette lighter. 

_“Bonsoir,”_ Tikki says cheerfully as Marinette approaches, tucking the lighter back in her pocket as she places her forever unlit cigarette between crimson lips. A rush of wind howls across the space, rattling the circus gates. “I was expecting you to try this,” 

Although not sure how, exactly, Tikki had arrived at this expectation of Marinette, she nods. “I can’t let Adrien do this,” 

The contortionist nods, “Yes, I’m sure.” Then, after a moment, she says, “Here, come out of the wind at least.”She motions him into the curtained tunnel. “That is a better face,” she says, scrutinizing Marinette’s appearance through mist and smoke. “It suits you,” She lets the curtain fall once they both have entered, leaving them enclosed in darkness studded with dimly sparkling lights, the lighter illuminating her red lips, the one spot of color among dots of white. 

“Where is everyone?” Marinette asks, shaking the rain from her beret. 

“Inclement weather party,” Tikki explains, “Traditionally held in the acrobats’ tent, as it is the largest. But I don’t suppose you’d know that, as you are not truly a part of the company, are you?” 

Marinette cannot see her expression well enough to read it, though she can tell Tikki is grinning brightly. 

“No,” she says, “I suppose I am not,” She follows Tikki as she walks through the never-ending tunnel, moving deeper into the circus. “Why are you here with me?” 

“We will get to that in due time,” Tikki answers with a coy smile, “How much has Luka told you?” 

The conversation with Luka she had recently is lost to her mind, a haze of panic and Adrien’s warning that one of them must die for the game to end. She recalls fleeting pieces of it, but nothing important enough to articulate. 

“No matter,” Tikki says when she does not respond immediately, “It is sometimes difficult to gather one’s senses after such a difficult time. Did he tell you something we have in common?” 

Marinette frowns, trying to recall, “No,” 

“We are both former students of the same instructor,” Tikki says. The fire from the lighter glows brighter as she inhales. “Temporary cover only, I’m afraid,” she adds as they reach another curtain. She pulls it back and the space is flooded with glowing light from the courtyard. She gestures for Marinette to step out into the rain, removing her thumb from the lighter trigger as she obediently walks through the open curtain, trying to make sense of the contortionist’s last statements. 

The lights that adorn the tents are dark, but in the center of the courtyard, the bonfire burns brightly, glowing and snow-white. The soft rain falling around it glistens. 

“It is lovely,” Tikki says, stepping into the courtyard with her. “I will grant you that.” 

“You were a former student of Winston?” Marinette asks, sure she had misheard. 

Tikki nods. “I grew tired of writing things in books, so I began inscribing them on my body instead. I am not fond of getting my hands dirty,” she adds, indicating her ink-stained fingers. “I am surprised he agreed to such an open venue for this challenge. He always preferred seclusion, and I suspect he is not pleased with the way it has progressed.” 

As she listens to the contortionist, Marinette notices she is completely dry. Every drop of rain that falls on her evaporates instantly, sizzling into steam as soon they touch her. 

“You won that last game,” she says. 

Tikki shakes her head, “I survived the last game,” she corrects. 

“When?” Marinette asks as they walk toward the bonfire. 

“It ended 48 years, 6 months, and 28 days ago. It was a cherry-blossom day.” Tikki presses her thumb against the lighter again, flame flickering to life before she continues. “Our instructors do not understand how it is,” she says, “To be bound to someone in such way. They are too old, too out of touch with their emotions. They no longer remember what it is to live and breathe and love within the world. They think it is simple to pit any two people against each other. It is never that simple. The other person becomes how you define your life, how you define yourself. They become as necessary to you as the air in your lungs. Then they expect the victor to carry on without that. It would be like pulling the Lahiffe twins apart and expecting them to be the same. They would be whole but not complete. You love him, do you not?” 

“More than anything in the world,” Marinette says. 

Tikki nods thoughtfully. “My opponent’s name was Plagg,” she says, “His favorite scents were cherry blossom and citrus. I loved him more than anything in the world, as well. And he loved me the same. On that cherry blossom day, he set himself on fire. Ignited a pillar of flame and stepped into it as though it were water.” 

Marinette tears up, “I’m sorry,” 

“Thank you,” Tikki says with the shadow of her normal smile. “It is what Monsieur Agreste is planning to do for you. To let you win,” 

“I know,” 

“I would not wish such pain on anyone. To be the victor. Plagg would have adored this,” she says as they reach the bonfire, watching the flames dance in increasing rain. “He was quite fond of fire. Water was always my element. Before,” 

She holds out her hand and watches as the raindrops refuse to reach her skin. 

"I have spent a great deal of time in this circus, surrounded by the love letters you've written into these tents. It has reminded me of something I have not felt in years. You two have created such beauty with each other in your lives." 

"Why are you telling me this?” Marinette asks, shaking her head. “You know what I have to do," 

"You know him so well, he is nearly a second part to you, and you to him. This is why you must know he will never let you do this– I have spoken to Adrien many times, and while he is a reasonable man in many ways, he is relentless in his love for you."

"Don't you think I know that?" Marinette said, her voice breaking.

Tikki looks up, “I’m sorry. I didn't mean to make you cry.” She retracts her hand. “Do you know the story of the wizard in the tree?” she asks. 

“The Merlin story?” Marinette asks. “I know several versions of it,” 

“There are many,” Tikki says with a nod. “Old stories have a habit of being told and retold and changed. Each subsequent storyteller puts their own unique mark on it. Whatever truth the story once had is buried in bias and embellishment. The reasons do not matter as much as the story itself.” 

The rain continues to increase, falling heavily as she continues. 

“Sometimes it is a cave, but I like the version with the tree. Perhaps because the tree is more romantic.” 

She takes the lipstick-stained cigarette from between her lips, balancing it gently between her graceful fingers. 

“While there are a number of trees here that could be used for this purpose,” she says, “I thought this might be more appropriate.” 

Marinette turns her attention to the bonfire. It illuminates the rain falling over it in such a way that the droplets of water sparkle like freshly fallen snow. 

All of the versions of the Merlin story she knows involve the magician being imprisoned, in a tree or cave or rock. Always as a punishment, the consequence of a foolish love. 

She looks back at Tikki. 

“You understand,” the contortionist says before she can speak. 

Marinette nods. 

“I knew you would,” she says. The light from the white flames brightens her smile through the rain. 

“What are you doing, Tikki?” a voice calls from behind her. When Tikki turns, Marinette can see Adrien standing at the edge of the courtyard. His moonlight suit is soaked to a dull grey, crisscrossing ribbons streaming out behind him in trails of black and white and charcoal, tangling along with his hair in the wind. 

“Go back to the party, Adrien,” Tikki says, tucking the silver cigarette holder in her pocket. “You will not want to be here for this,” 

“For what?” Adrien asks, though he is staring at Marinette. 

When Tikki speaks, she addresses them both. “You have built each other love letters in canvas and stripes, and I have been surrounded by it for decades. It greatly reminds me of what it was like to be with him. It is wonderful and terrible. I am not yet prepared to give it up, but you are letting it fade.” 

Adrien’s brow furrows, “You told me love was fickle and fleeting,” he says, confused. 

“I lied,” Tikki says, rolling her cigarette between her fingers. “I thought it might be easier if you doubted him. And I gave you a year to find a way for the circus to continue without you, and still, you have not. I am stepping in.” 

“I am try–” Adrien starts, but Tikki cuts her off. 

“You continue to overlook a simple fact,” she says, “You carry this circus within yourself. She, at least, uses the fire as a tool. You are the greater loss, but too selfish to admit it. Too selfish to lose her. You believe you could not live with this pain. Such pain is not lived with, Adrien. It is only endured. For that, I am greatly sorry."

“Tikki, please,” he says, voice panicked, “I need more time.” 

Tikki shakes her head. “I told you before,” she responds, “time is not something I can control.” 

Marinette has not taken her eyes from Adrien since he appeared in the courtyard, but now she turns away.

“Go ahead,” she says to Tikki, raising her voice to be heard over the growing noise of the rain. “Do it. I would rather burn by his side than watch him die.” 

What might have been a simple cry of the word, “No” is distorted into something greater by the wind as Adrien screams, a heartbroken noise like his very heart had been torn from his chest. The agony in his voice cuts through Marinette like every blade in Chloé’s collection combined, but she keeps her attention on the contortionist. 

“It will end the game, yes?” she asks, “It will end the game even if I am trapped in the fire and not dead.” 

“You will be unable to continue,” Tikki says, “That is all that matters.” 

Marinette nods decisively. “Then do it.” 

Tikki smiles at her. She places her palms together, curls of smoke from her lighter rising over her fingers. She tilts her head down in a respectful nod. 

Neither of them are watching as Adrien runs toward them through the rain. 

Tikki lights the cigarette and flicks it toward the fire. 

It is still in the air when Marinette cries out for Adrien to stop. 

It had barely touched the flickering white flames of the bonfire when he wraps her in his arms. 

Marinette does not have time to push him away, so she pulls him close, burying her face in his shoulder, her beret torn from her head by the wind. 

And then the pain starts. Sharp, ripping pain as though she is being torn apart. 

“Trust me,” Adrien whispers in her ear, and she does. She stops fighting it, forgetting everything but him. 

In the moment before the explosion, before the white light becomes too blinding to discern precisely what is happening, they dissolve into the air. One moment they are there, Marinette’s dress fluttering in the wind and rain, Adrien’s hand pressed against the small of her back, and the next they are only a blur of light and shadow. 

Then both of them are gone and the circus is ablaze, flames licking against the tents, twisting up into the rain. 

Alone in the courtyard, Tikki sighs. The flames pass by her without touching, swirling around in a vortex, illuminating her with impossible brightness. 

Then, as quickly as they came, the flames die down to nothing. 

The bonfire’s curling cage sits empty, not even a smoldering ember left. The rain patters in a hollow echo against the metal, drops evaporating into steam where the iron is still hot. 

Tikki pulls the lighter from her coat, flicking it open with a lazy, practiced gesture. 

The flame catches easily, despite the rain. 

She watches the cauldron fill with water while she waits.

* * *

If Adrien could open his mouth, he would scream. But there is too much to control between the heat and the rain and Marinette in his arms. 

He focuses on her, pulling everything she is with him as he breaks himself apart. Holding to the memory of every touch of her skin against his, every moment he has spent with her. Carrying her with him. 

Suddenly, there is nothing. No rain. No fire. A stretch of calm white nothingness. 

Somewhere in the nothingness, a clock begins to strike midnight. 

_Stop,_ he thinks. 

The clock continues to chime, but he feels the stillness fall. 

The breaking is the easy part, Adrien realizes. 

It is like healing his sliced-open fingertips as a child, taken to an extreme. 

There is so much to balance, trying to find the edges again. 

It would be so simple to let go. 

It would be so much easier to let go. 

Less painful. 

He fights against the temptation, against the pain and the chaos. Struggling for control with himself and his surroundings. 

He picks a location to focus on, the most familiar place he can think of. And slowly, agonizingly slowly, he pulls himself safely together, until he is standing in his own tent, in the center of a circle of empty chairs. 

He feels lighter. Diluted. Slightly dizzy. 

But he is not an echo of his former self. He is whole again, still breathing. He can feel his heart beating, fast but steady. Even his suit feels the same as it did, fitted to him but no longer heavy from the rain. 

He spins in a circle, taking in the room. 

The dizziness begins to fade as he collects himself, still amazed at the accomplishment. Then he notices that everything in the tent around him is transparent. The chairs, the light hanging above his head, even the stripes on the walls seem insubstantial. 

And despite disappearing with Marinette, he is completely alone. 

For Marinette, the moment of the explosion lasts much longer. The heat and light stretch endlessly as she clings to Adrien through the pain. 

And then he is gone. 

Nothing remains. No fire. No rain. No ground beneath her feet. 

Her sight begins to shift continuously from shadow to light, darkness replaced by expansive white only to be consumed by darkness again. Never settling. 

The circus shifts around Adrien, as fluid as one of Marinettet’s illusions. 

He pictures where he wishes to be within it, and he is there. He cannot even tell if he is moving himself or manipulating the circus around him. 

The Ice Garden is silent and still, nothing but crisp, cool whiteness in every direction. 

Only a fraction of Shattered Mirrors shows his reflection, and some simply contain a shimmering blur of grey suit, or the motion of billowing ribbons as they float behind him. 

He thinks he catches glimpses of Marinette in the glass, the edge of her jacket, the billowing fold of her gown, but he cannot be certain. 

Many of the mirrors sit hollow and empty, ghosts of memories flickering across them. 

The mist in the Menagerie slowly dissipates as he searches the tent, finding nothing concealed within but paper. 

The Pool of Tears does not even ripple, the surface calm and smooth, and he is unable to grasp a stone to drop within it. He cannot light a candle on the Wishing Tree, though the wishes that are placed on the branches continue to burn. 

He moves through room after room in Labyrinth. Rooms he created leading to ones she made and back again. 

He can feel her, close enough that he expects to see her around each turn, behind every door. 

But there are only softly drifting feathers and fluttering playing cards. Silver statues with unseeing eyes. Chessboard painted floors with vacant squares. 

There are traces of her everywhere, but nothing for him to focus on. Nothing to hold on to. 

The hallway lined with mismatched doors and covered in fallen snow bears traces of what could be footprints, or might be only shadows. 

And Adrien cannot tell where they lead. 

Marinette gasps as air fills her lungs, as though she had been underwater and unaware of it until she was above it again. 

And her first coherent thought is that she did not expect being trapped in fire to feel so cold.

The cool air is sharp and stinging, and she can only see white in all directions. 

As her eyes adjust, she can discern the shadow of a tree, the hanging branches of a frosty white willow tree cascading around her. 

She takes a step forward, the ground disconcertingly soft beneath her feet. 

She stands in the middle of the Ice Garden. The fountain in the center has stopped, the normally falling sheets quiet and still. 

And while the whiteness makes the effect difficult to see, the entire garden is transparent.

She looks down at her hands. They are shaking slightly, but they appear to be solid. Her dress remains burgundy and opaque. 

Marinette lifts her hand to a nearby rose and her fingers pass through its petals with only soft resistance, as though they are made of water rather than ice. 

She is still looking at the rose when she hears the gasp behind her.

Adrien holds his hand to his mouth, not quite believing his eyes. The sight of Marinette standing in the Ice Garden is one he has imagined so many times before while alone in the icy expanse of flowers and trees. It does not seem real despite the darkness of her velvet dress against the collection of pale roses. 

Then she turns and looks at him. As soon as he sees her eyes, all his doubts vanish. 

For a moment, she looks so young that he can see the girl she was, years before he met her, when they were already connected but still so far apart. 

There are so many things he wants to say. Things he feared he would never have the opportunity to tell her again. Only one truly seems important anymore. 

“I love you,” he says. 

The words echo through the tent, softly rustling the frozen leaves. 

Marinette stares at him as he approaches, thinking him a dream. 

“I thought I’d lost you,” he says when he reaches her, his voice a tremulous whisper. 

He seems to be as substantial as she is, not transparent like the garden. He appears rich and vibrant against the background of white, a bright flush in his cheeks, his bright green eyes brimming with tears. 

She brings her hand to his face, petrified that her finger will pass through him as easily as they had with the rose. 

The relief when he is solid and warm and alive to her touch is overwhelming, and she breaks down. 

She is pulled into his arms, her tears staining his button-up shirt. 

“I love you,” she says when she finds her voice. 

They stand entwined, each unwilling to release the other. 

“I couldn’t let you do it,” Adrien says, “I couldn’t let you go.” 

“What did you do?” Marinette asks, pulling him closer to her, wrapping one arm around the back of his neck. She is still not entirely certain she understands what happened. 

“I used the circus as a touchstone,” Adrien explains. “I didn’t know if it would work, but I couldn’t let you go– I had to try. I tried to take you with me and then I couldn’t find you,” he says tearfully, stroking her back rhythmically, “I thought I’d lost you.” 

“I’m here,” Marinette says, stroking the hair at the nape of his neck, “I’m here,” 

It is not what she expected, being liberated from the world and reinstated in a confined location. She does not feel confined, only separate, as though she and Adrien are overlapping the circus, rather than contained within it. 

She looks around at the trees, the long frosted willow branches cascading down, the topiaries that line the nearby path like ghosts. 

Only then does she notice that the garden is melting. 

“The bonfire went out,” Marinette says. She can feel it now, the emptiness. She can feel the circus all around her, as though it hangs on her like a mist, as though she could reach out and touch the iron fence despite the distance from it. Detecting the fence, how far it is in every direction, where every tent sits, even the darkened courtyard and Tikki standing within it, is almost effortless. She can feel the entirety of the circus as easily as feeling her dress against her skin. 

The only thing burning brightly within it is Adrien, but it is a flickering brightness, as fragile as a candle flame. 

“You’re holding the circus together,” she says. 

Adrien nods. It is only beginning to weigh on him, but it is much more difficult to manage without the bonfire. He cannot focus enough to keep the details intact. Elements are already slipping away, dripping like the flowers around them. 

And he knows that if it breaks, he will not be able to put it back together again. 

He is shaking, and though he steadies when Marinette holds her tighter, he continues to tremble holding her. 

“Let go of it, Adrien,” she says gently.

“I can’t,” he chokes out, “If I let go, it will collapse,” 

“What will happen to us if it collapses?” Marinette asks. 

Adrien shakes her head resting his chin on the top of her head, “I don’t know,” he says, “I simply suspended it. It can’t be self-sufficient without us. It needs a caretaker.”

* * *

Marinette stands in the paper menagerie next to a life-size white stag with antlers. Usually, it is filled with dense white fog, the paper creatures moving. Instead, birds and bats and butterflies hang as though suspended from strings, motionless. No rustling of paper wings, everything completely still. 

Other creatures sit on the ground, a black cat crouched pre-pounce near a silver-tipped white fox. There are larger animals, as well. A zebra with perfectly contrasting stripes. A reclining lion with a snowy mane. 

Her head snaps up when a young boy walks into the tent, nearly transparent though Marinette is sure he is real. He is no older than Emmy and Lou, rather unremarkable in most ways, except for the intelligent glimmer in his brown eyes. 

She sighs, “I asked her not to send you this way,” she says. “Though it is the most direct.” 

“Who are you?” the teenager asks. 

Marinette smiles sadly, “My name is Marinette. And you must be Charlie,” 

Charlie nods. 

“I wish you were not so young,” Marinette says. Her voice is profoundly sad, though she can tell Charlie is focusing less on that and more on her appearance. 

“Are you dead?” he asks, walking closer to her. With the change in angle, Marinette appears almost solid one moment, and transparent again the next. 

‘“Not precisely,” Marinette says. 

“Tikki said she was the only living person here who knew what happened.” 

“I suspect,” Marinette tells him carefully, “that Mlle. Tikki is not always entirely truthful, Charlie.”

“You look like a ghost,” he says. He can think of no other better way to describe it. 

Marinette raises an eyebrow, one corner of her lip quirking up, “You appear the same way to me, so which one of one is real?” 

Charlie has no idea how to answer that question, so he asks the first one of his own that comes to mind instead. “Is that your beret in the courtyard?” 

To his surprise, Marinette smiles. “It is, indeed,” she says. “I lost it before everything happened, so it got left behind.” 

“What happened?” Charlie asks. 

Marinette pauses before she answers.

 _“That,”_ she says, “is a rather long story.” 

“That’s what Tikki told me,” Charlie says. He wonders if he ought to find Lou, so he can do the storytelling properly. 

Marinette nods, “She was truthful on that point, then,” she says. “Tikki had intended to imprison me in the bonfire, the reasons for which are a longer story than we have time for, and was a change of plan that resulted in the current situation. I was pulled apart and put back together again in a less concentrated state.” 

She holds out her hand and Charlie reaches to touch it. His fingers move through without stopping, but there is a soft resistance, the impression that there is something occupying the space, even if it is not completely solid. 

“It is not an illusion or a trick,” Marinette says. 

Charlie’s brow furrows in thought, but after a moment he nods. Emmy always told him nothing is impossible, and he finds that he is beginning to agree.

“I am not interacting with the surroundings as directly as you are,” Marinette continues, “You and everything here appear equally insubstantial from my perspective. Perhaps we will be able to discuss it at a greater length another time. Come with me,” she turns and begins walking toward the back of the tent. 

Charlie follows, taking a winding path around the animals. It is difficult to find places to step, though Marinette glides ahead of him without any difficulty. 

Charlie loses his balance stepping around the prone figure of a polar bear. His shoulder knocks into a raven hanging in the air. The raven falls to the ground, its wings bent and broken. 

Before Charlie can see anything, Marinette reaches down and picks up the raven, turning it over in her hands. She moves the broken wings and reaches toward them, twisting something in the wings with a clicking noise. The raven turns its head and lets out a sharp, metallic caw. 

“How can you touch them?” Charlie asks. 

“I am still figuring out the logistics of interacting with physical things,” Marinette says, flattening the raven’s wings and letting it limp down the length of her arm. It flaps its paper feathers but cannot fly. “It likely has something to do with the fact that I made them. Elements of the circus I had a hand in creating seem more tangible.” 

The raven hops off by a mountainous pile of paper scales with a curling tail that looks as though it might once have been a dragon. 

“They’re amazing,” Charlie says. 

“They are paper and clockwork wrapped in fairly simple charms. You could do the same with a bit of study,” Marinette tells him with a gentle smile. 

It has never crossed Charlie’s mind that he could do such things himself, but having been told as much so simply and directly, it seems strangely achievable. 

“Where are we going?” Charlie asks as they approach the far side of the tent. 

“Someone would like to speak with you,” Marinette says. “He’s waiting at the Wishing Tree; it seemed to be the most stable.” 

“I don’t think I’ve seen the Wishing Tree,” Charlie says, mindful of each step as they reach the other side of the tent. 

“That’s because it is not a tent that is stumbled upon,” Marinette explains, “It is found when it is needed, instead. It is one of my favorite tents, truly. You take a candle from the box at the entrance and light it from one that already burns on the tree. Your wish is ignited by someone else’s. It’s very poetic,” They have reached the wall of the tent, and Marinette indicates a break in the fabric, a barely visible row of ribbon ties that reminds Charlie of the entrance to Lou’s tent with all the strange bottles. “If you go out here, you’ll see the entrance to the acrobat tent across the way. I’ll be right behind you, though you might not be able to see me until we’re inside again. Be…” she sighs, “be careful,” 

Charlie unties the bows and slips out of the tent easily, finding himself in a winding path between tents. The sky above is grey but bright, despite the soft rain that is beginning to fall. 

The acrobat tent looms higher than the tents surrounding it and the sign that reads Defiance of Gravity swings over the entrance only a few paces away. 

Charlie has been in this tent several times, he knows the open floor with the performers hanging above it well. 

But when he steps through the door he is not met with the wide-open space he expects. 

He walks into a party. A celebration that has been frozen in time, suspended the same way the paper birds had been in the air. 

There are dozens of performers throughout the tent, bathed with light from glowing round lamps that hang high above, amongst the ropes and chairs and human-sized bird cages. Some are standing in groups and pairs, others sit on pillows and boxes and chairs that add flashes of color to the predominantly black-and-white crowd. 

And each figure is perfectly still. So motionless that it seems they are not even breathing. They look like statues. 

One near Charlie has a flute at his lips, the instrument silent in his fingers. 

Another is pouring a bottle of wine, the liquid hovering above the glass. 

“We ought to have gone around,” Marinette says, appearing like a shadow by her side, “I’ve been keeping an eye on them for hours and they haven’t gotten any less disturbing,” 

“What’s wrong with them?” Charlie asks. 

“Nothing, as far as I can tell,” Marinette answers, “The entirety of the circus has been suspended to give us more time, so…” she lifts a hand and waves sit over the party. 

“Tikki’s part of the circus and she’s not like this,” Charlie says, confused. 

“I believe she plays by her own rules,” Marinette admits, “This way,” she adds, moving into the crowd of figures. 

Navigating the party proves more difficult than walking around the paper animals, and Charlie takes every step with extreme caution, afraid of what might happen if he accidentally hits someone the way he knocked down the raven. 

“Almost there,” Marinette says as they maneuver their way around a cluster of people grouped in a broken circle. 

But Charlie stops, staring at the figure the group is facing. 

Lou wears his snowy-white performance costume, but his patchwork jacket has been discarded, his vest hanging open over his black shirt. His hands are lifted in the air, gesturing in such a familiar way that Charlie can tell he has been stopped mid-story. 

Emmy stands next to him. Her head is turned in the direction of the courtyard, as though something has pulled her attention away from her brother at the precise moment the party was halted. Her hair spills out behind her, waves of red floating in the wair as if she were suspended in water. 

Charlie walks around to face her, reaching out tentatively to touch her hair. It ripples beneath his fingers, undulating slowly before settling back to its frozen state. 

“Can she see me?” Charlie asks. Emmy’s eyes are still bright. He expects her to blink at any moment, but she does not. 

“I don’t know,” Marinette says. “Perhaps, but–” 

But she can conclude the thought, one of the chairs hanging above them falls, its ribbons snapping. It comes close to hitting Lou as it crashes to the ground, splintering into pieces. 

_“Merde,”_ Marinette says as Charlie jumps back, almost colliding with Emmy and sending her hair into another brief wave of motion. “Through there,” Marinette says, indicating the side of the tent that is some distance away. Then she vanishes. 

Charlie looks back at Emmy and Lou. Emmy’s hair settles again, unmoving. Fragments of the fallen chair rest on Lou’s boots.

Turning away, Lou moves carefully around the stationary figure to reach the edge of the tent. He casts nervous glances upward at the additional chairs and the round iron cages suspended by nothing but fraying ribbon. 

His fingers shake as he undoes the ties in the wall. 

As soon as he passes through, he feels as though he has walked into a dream. 

Inside the adjoining tent, there is a towering tree. As large as his old oak tree, growing right out of the ground. The branches are bare and black, but they are covered with dripping white wax, translucent layers of wax frosting over the bark. 

Only a fraction of the candles are burning, but the sight is no less resplendent as they illuminate the twisting black branches, casting dancing shadows over the striped walls. 

Beneath it, Marinette stands, leaning against the chest of the man Charlie instantly recognizes as the illusionist. 

He appears as transparent as Marinette does. His suit looks like mist in the candlelight. 

“Hello, Charlie,” he says as he approaches. His voice echoes around them, softly, as if he were standing close to him, whispering close to him. “I like your scarf,” he adds when Charlie does not immediately reply. The words in his ears are warm and strangely comforting. “I’m Adrien. I don’t believe we were ever properly introduced.” 

“Nice to meet you,” Charlie says. 

Adrien smiles, and Charlie is struck by how different he seems from the way he did when he watched him perform, even beyond the fact that he can look through him at the dark tree branches. 

“How did you know I was coming here?” he asks.

“Emmy mentioned you as part of a series of events that occurred earlier, so I hoped you would arrive eventually,” 

At the mention of Emmy’s name, Charlie glances over his shoulder at the wall of the tent. The suspended party seems farther away than just beyond the canvas stripes. 

“We need your help with something,” Adrien continues as he turns back. “We need you to take over the circus.” 

“What?” Charlie asks. He is not sure what he was expecting, but it was not this. 

“Right now the circus is in need of a new caretaker,” Marinette explains. “It is drifting, like a ship without an anchor. It needs someone to anchor it.” 

“And that someone is me?” Charlie asks. 

“We would like it to be, yes,” Adrien says. “If you are willing to make the commitment. We should be able to assist you, and Emmy and Lou would be able to help, as well, but the true responsibility would be yours.”

Charlie frowns, “But I’m not… special,” he says. “Not the way they are. I’m not anyone important.” 

“I know,” Adrien says. “You’re not destined or chosen– I wish I could tell you that you were if that would make it easier, but it’s not true. You’re in the right place at the right time, and you care enough to do what needs to be done. Sometimes that’s enough,” 

As he watches him in the flickering light, it strikes Charlie suddenly that he is a fair deal older than he appears, and that the same is likely true of Marinette. It is like realizing someone in a photograph is no longer the same age as they were when it was taken, and they seem farther away because of it. The circus itself feels far away, even though he stands within it. As though it is falling away from him. 

“All right,” Charlie says, but Adrien holds up a transparent hand to stop him before he agrees. 

“Wait,” Adrien says, “This is important. I want you to have something neither of us truly had. I want you to have a choice. You can agree to do this or you can walk away. You are not obliged to help, and I do not want you to feel as though you are.” 

“What happens if I walk away?” Charlie asks. Adrien looks at Marinette before he answers. 

They only look at each other without speaking, but the gesture is so intimate that Charlie glances away, looking up at the twisting branches of the tree. 

“It won’t last,” Adrien says after a moment. He does not elaborate, turning back to Charlie as he continues. “I know this is a great deal to request from you, but we do not have anyone else to ask.” 

Suddenly, the candles on the tree begin to spark. Some of them darken, curl of smoke replacing the bright flames only momentarily before disappearing themselves. 

Adrien wavers and for a moment, Charlie thinks he might faint, but Marinette places a soothing hand on his back. 

“Adrien, _mon cœur,”_ Marinette says, running her hand through his hair. “You are the strongest person I have ever known. You can hold on for a while longer, I know you can.”

“I’m sorry,” Adrien says. 

Charlie cannot tell which one of them he is speaking to. 

“You have nothing to worry about,” Marinette says. 

Adrien holds tightly to her hand. 

“What would happen to the two of you, if the circus…” Charlie pauses before finishing, “What would happen if it stopped?” 

“Truthfully, I’m not entirely certain,” Adrien admits.

“Nothing good,” Marinette mutters. 

Charlie asks, “What would you need me to do?” 

“I need you to finish something I started,” Adrien says. “I… I acted rather impulsively and played my cards out of order. And now there is a matter of the bonfire as well.” 

“The bonfire?” Charlie asks. 

“Think of the circus as a machine,” Marinette attempts to explain, “The bonfire is one of the things that powers it.” 

“There are two things that need to happen,” Adrien says. “First, the bonfire needs to be lit. That will,” he sighs, “That ought to power half the circus,” 

“What about the other half?” Charlie asks. 

Adrien sighs, “That’s more complicated,” he says, “I carry that with me. And I would have to give that to you.” 

“Oh.” 

“You would carry it with you,” he explains, “All of the time. You’d be tied very tightly to the circus itself. You could leave, but for extended periods of time. I do not know if you would be able to give it to someone else. It would be yours. Always.” 

It is only then that Charlie realizes the scope of the commitment he is being asked for. 

It is not the handful of years committed to Harvard his family had expected of him. It is, he thinks, an even greater commitment than inheriting responsibility for the family farm. 

He looks from Marinette to Adrien, and knows from the look in their eyes that they will let him go if he asks to leave, no matter what that might mean for them or for the circus. 

He thinks of a litany of questions, but none of them truly matter. 

He knows his answer already. 

His choice was made when he was ten years old, under a different tree, bound up in acorns and dares and a single black glove. 

He will always choose the circus. 

“I’ll do it,” he says. “I’ll stay. I’ll do whatever it is you need me to do.” 

“Thank you, Charlie,” Adrien says softly. The words resounding in his ears soothe the last of his nerves. 

“Indeed,” Marinette agrees, “I think we should make this official.” 

“Do you think that’s absolutely necessary?” Adrien asks. 

Marinette shrugs, “At this point,” she says, “I’m not about to settle for a verbal contract.” Adrien frowns for a moment but then nods his consent, and Marinette carefully lets go of his hand. He stays steady and his appearance does not waver. 

“Do you want me to sign something?” Charlie asks. 

She shakes her head, “Not exactly,” Marinette says. She takes a silver ring from her left hand, engraved with something Charlie cannot discern in the light. Marinette reaches up to a branch above her head and passes the ring through one of the still-burning candles until it glows, white and hot.

Charlie wonders whose wish that particular flame might be.

“I made a wish on this tree years ago,” Marinette says, as though she knows exactly what Charlie is thinking. 

“What did you wish for?” Charlie asks, hoping it is not too forward a question, but Marinette does not answer. 

Instead, she folds the glowing ring into her palm, and then she offers her hand to Charlie. 

Charlie hesitantly reaches out, expecting his fingers to pass through Marinette’s hand as easily as they did before. 

But instead, they stop, and Marinette’s hand in his is almost solid. Marinette leans forward and whispers in Charlie’s ear. 

“I wished for him,” she says. 

Then Charlie’s hand begins to hurt. The pain is bright and hot as the ring burns into his skin. 

“What are you doing?” he manages to ask when he can speak. The pain is sharp and searing, coursing throughout his entire body, and he is barely able to keep his knees from buckling beneath him. 

“Binding,” Marinette says, “It’s one of my specialties,” 

She releases Charlie’s hand. The pain vanishes instantly but Charlie’s legs continue to tremble. 

“Are you alright?” Adrien asks. 

Charlie nods, looking down at his palm. The ring is gone, but there is a bright red circle burned into his skin. Charlie is certain without having to ask that it will be a scar he carries with him always. He closes his hand and looks back at Marinette and Adrien. 

“Tell me what I need to do now,” he says.

* * *

Charlie finds the tiny, book-filled room without much difficulty. The gold-eyed falcon sitting in the corner blinks at him curiously as he sorts through the contents of the desk. 

He flips anxiously through the large leather book until he finds the page with Emmy and Lou’s signatures. He tears the page from the binding carefully, removing it completely. 

He finds a pen in a drawer and writes his own name across the page as he has been instructed. While the ink dries, he gathers up the rest of the things he will need, running through the list over and over in his head so he does not forget anything. 

The yarn is easily found; a ball of it sits precariously on a pile of books. 

The two cards, on a familiar playing card and the other a tarot card emblazoned with an angel, are amongst the papers on the desk. He tucks these into the front cover of the book. 

The doves in the cage above him stir with a soft fluttering of feathers.

The pocket watch on its long silver chain proves most difficult to locate. He finds it on the ground beside the desk, and when he attempts to dust it off a bit he can see the initials G.A. engraved on the back. The watch no longer ticks.

Charlie places the loose page on top of the book and tucks it under his arm. The watch and the yarn he puts in his pocket with the candle pulled from the Wishing Tree. 

The falcon cocks its head at him as he leaves. The doves remain asleep. 

Charlie crosses the adjoining text, walking around the double circle of chairs as passing directly through does not seem appropriate. 

Outside, the light rain is still falling. 

He hurries back to the courtyard, where he finds Tikki waiting for him. 

“Adrien says I need to borrow your lighter,” he says. 

Tikki tilts her head curiously, looking oddly like a bird with a cat-like grin. “I suppose that is acceptable,” she says after a moment. She pulls the silver light from her coat pocket and tosses it to him. 

It is heavier than he had expected, a complicated mechanism of gears partially encased in worn and tarnished silver, with symbols he cannot distinguish etched into the surface. 

“Be careful with that,” Tikki says. 

“Is it magic?” Charlie asks, turning it over in his hand. 

“No, but it is very old, and it was constructed by someone very dear to me. I take it you are attempting to light that again?” She gestures at the towering bowl of twisted metal that once held the bonfire. 

Charlie nods. 

“Do you want any help?” 

“Are you offering?” 

Tikki shrugs. “I am not terribly invested in the outcome,” she says, but something about the way she looks around at the tents and the mud makes Charlie doubt her words. 

“I don’t believe you,” he says. “But I am, and I think I should do this on my own.” 

Tikki smiles at him, the first smile he has seen from her that seems genuine. “I shall leave you to it, then.” She runs a hand along the iron cauldron and the rainwater within it turns to steam, rising in a soft cloud that dissipates into the mist. 

With no further advice or instructions, she walks off down a black and white striped path, a thin curl of smoke trailing behind her, leaving Charlie alone in the courtyard. 

He remembers Lou telling him the story of the lighting of the bonfire, the first lighting. Though he only now realizes that it was the night Lou and Emmy were born. He had told the story in such detail that Charlie had assumed he witnessed it firsthand. The archers, the colors, the spectacle. 

And now here Charlie stands, trying to accomplish the same feat with only a book and some yarn and a borrowed cigarette lighter. Alone, in the rain. 

He mumbles to himself what he can remember of Adrien's instructions, the ones that are more complicated than finding books and tying strings. Things about focus and intent that he does not entirely understand. 

He wraps the book with a length of fine wool yarn dyed a deep crimson. He knots it three times, binding the book closed with the loose page against the cover, the cards securely pressed inside.

The pocket watch he hangs around it, looping the chain as best he can. 

He throws it in the empty cauldron where it lands with a dull, wet thud, the watch clattering against the iron. 

Marinette’s beret suits in the mud by his feet. He throws that in as well. 

He glances back in the direction of the acrobat tent– he can see the top of it from the courtyard, rising taller than the surrounding tents. 

And then, impulsive, he takes out the remaining contents of his pockets and adds them to the collection in the cauldron. His silver ticket. The dried rose he wore at dinner with the other _miracles._ Emmy’s night-black glove. 

He hesitates, turning the tiny glass bottle with Lou’s version of his tree trapped inside over in his hand but then he adds that as well, flinching when it shatters against the metal. 

He takes the single white candle in one hand and Tikki’s lighter in the other. He fumbles with the lighter for a moment before it consents to spark. 

Then, he ignites the candle with the bright orange flame. 

He throws the burning candle in the cauldron. 

Nothing happens. 

_I choose this,_ Charlie thinks, _I want this. I need this. Please. Please let this work._

He wishes it, harder than he has ever wished for anything on birthday candles or shooting stars. Wishing for himself. Wishing for the people who consider _Le Cirque du Miraculeux_ a home just as he does. For a clockmaker he has never met. For Adrien and Marinette and Emmy and Lou and even for Tikki, though she claims she does not care. 

Charlie closes his eyes.

And waits for a miracle. 

For a moment, everything is still. Even the light rain suddenly stops. He feels a pair of hands resting on his shoulders, a heaviness in his chest. 

And something within the twisted iron cauldron begins to spark. When the flames catch they are bright and crimson. 

When they turn to white they are blinding, and the shower of sparks falls like stars. 

The force of the heat pushes Charlie backward, moving through his like a wave, the air burning hot in his lungs. He falls onto the ground that is no longer charred and muddy but firm and dry and patterned in a spiral of black and white. 

All around him, lights are popping to life along the tents, flickering like fireflies. 

Marinette stands beneath the wishing watching as the candles come alight along the branches. 

A moment later, Adrien reappears at her side. 

“It worked, right?” he asks breathlessly. “Please tell me that it worked.” 

In response, she kisses him the way he once kissed her in the middle of a crowded ballroom. 

As though they are the only two people in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, I'm out bro. This broke my brain, so I hope you at least enjoyed it


End file.
